THE  HUMBLER  POETS 


FIRST  SERIES 

THE  HUMBLER  POETS:  A  COLLECTION 
OF  NEWSPAPER  AND  PERIODICAL  VERSE, 
1870  TO  1885.  Edited  by  Slason  Thomp 
son.  Eleventh  Edition.  Crown  8vo,  gilt 
top $1.50 


A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
CHICAGO 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS 

(SECOND   SERIES) 


A   COLLECTION  OF  NEWSPAPER  AND 
PERIODICAL    VERSE 

1885  TO  1910 


BY 

WALLACE  AND  FRANCES  RICE 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG    &   CO. 
1911 


COPYRIGHT 

A.    C.    McCLTJRG    &   CO. 

1910 


Published,  March,  1911 


THE- PLIMPTON  'PRESS 

[WD-O] 
NORWOOD  'MASS-  U  -B'A 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

publishers  and  compilers  are  glad  to  acknowledge  their 
obligations  to  Mr.  Franklin  P.  Adams;  to  Mr.  George  Ade, 
for  a  football  ballad  written  while  he  was  in  college;  to  Mr.  Irving 
Bacheller,  for  the  "Ballad  of  the  Sabre  Cross  and  7,"  from  "In 
Various  Moods,"  copyrighted,  1910;  to  Miss  Katherine  Lee 
Bates;  to  Mr.  Christopher  Bannister;  to  Mr.  James  Barnes;  to 
Mr.  L.  Frank  Baum  and  Messrs,  the  Reilly  &  Britton  Company; 
to  Mr.  Charles  G.  Blanden;  to  Mr.  Louis  James  Block;  to  Mr. 
George  E.  Bowen;  to  Mrs.  Grace  Duffie  Boylan;  to  Mr.  Thomas 
H.  Briggs,  Jr.;  to  Doctor  Almon  Brooks,  for  the  poems  of  the 
late  Francis  Brooks;  to  Doctor  Richard  Burton;  to  Mr.  Charles 
J.  Buell;  to  Mr.  Bliss  Carman;  to  Mrs.  Willa  Sibert  Gather  and 
the  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  for  "Asphodels"  and  "L' Envoi"; 
to  Mr.  Madison  Cawein;  to  Mr.  John  Vance  Cheney  and  Messrs. 
the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  for  "San  Francisco"  and  "The 
Man  with  a  Hoe:  A  Reply";  to  Mr.  William  Hamilton  Cline 
and  Messrs,  the  Franklin  Hudson  Publishing  Company,  for 
"The  Glory  of  the  Game,"  from  "In  Varying  Moods";  to  Mr. 
D.  A.  Clippinger  and  the  Chicago  Madrigal  Club,  for  "I  Know 
the  Way  of  the  Wild  Blush  Rose,"  by  Mr.  Willard  E.  Keyes;  to 
Mr.  Edmund  Vance  Cooke  and  Puck,  for  "The  Third  Person"; 
to  Mr.  Charles  H.  Crandall  and  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
for  "The  Cinder  Path"  and  "The  Call  of  the  Stream,"  from 
"Wayside  Music";  to  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company,  for 
"Angelina"  and  "Discovered,"  by  the  late  Paul  Laurence 
Dunbar;  to  Miss  Caroline  Duer  and  Messrs.  P.  F.  Collier's 
Sons,  for  "An  International  Episode";  to  Doctor  Charles  S. 
Eldredge;  to  Mr.  Horace  Spencer  Fiske;  to  Mr.  Elliott  Flower; 
to  Messrs.  Forbes  &  Company,  for  verses  by  the  late  Ben  King; 
to  Mr.  Sam  Walter  Foss  and  Messrs,  the  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard 
Company,  for  "When  a  Man's  Out  of  a  Job";  to  Miss  Evelyn 
Gail  Gardiner;  to  Miss  Beatrice  Hanscom  and  Messrs,  the 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company,  for  § "  Procrustes'  Bed,"  from 
"Love,  Laurels,  and  Laughter";  to  fl/Iiss  Frances  Viola  Holden; 
to  Mr.  John  Jarvis  Holden;  to  Messrs,  the  Houghton  Mifflin 
Company,  for  "The  Kearsarge,"  by  the  late  James  Jeffrey  Roche; 
to  the  late  Mary  H.  Hull;  to  Mr.  Henry  M.  Hyde;  to  Mr. 
Charles  James;  to  Miss  Amanda  T.  Jones;  to  Mr.  William  F. 
Kirk;  to  Mr.  Samuel  Ellsworth  Kiser;  to  Mr.  Gustav  Kobbe 


vi  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

and  the  New  York  Herald,  for  "Homeward";  to  Mr.  Louis 
Albert  Lamb;  to  Mr.  Walter  Learned;  to  Mr.  John  McGovern; 
to  Mr.  Alexander  Maclean;  to  Mr.  Oliver  Marble;  to  Miss 
Angela  Morgan;  to  Mr.  Allan  Munier  and  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
for  "Beyond";  to  Mr.  Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick;  to  Mr. 
Wilbur  Dick  Nesbit;  to  Mr.  John  Myers  O'Hara;  to  Mr. 
Warren  Pease;  to  Mr.  Harry  Thurston  Peck,  for  "Heliotrope" 
and  "Evolution,"  copyrighted  1905  and  1910;  to  Mr.  William 
A.  Phelon  and  the  Chicago  Journal,  for  "Paul  Jones's  Last 
Voyage";  to  Mr.  Frank  Putnam;  to  Miss  Lizette  Wood  worth 
Reese  and  Messrs,  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  for  "Death's 
Guerdon"  and  "A  Song";  to  Mrs.  Georgiana  Rice;  to  Mr. 
Robert  Cameron  Rogers  and  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  for 
"Love's  Cup,"  from  "For  the  King,  and  Other  Poems";  to 
Mr.  Ray  Clarke  Rose;  to  Mr.  Charles  Edward  Russell;  to 
Mr.  Edwin  I.  Sabin  and  Messrs,  the  Century  Company,  for 
"Mothers"  and  "The  Poor  Man's  Automobile";  to  Mrs. 
Margaret  Elizabeth  Sangster  and  Messrs.  P.  F.  Collier's  Sons, 
for  "The  Absent  Boy";  to  Mr.  Clinton  Scollard;  to  Mr.  William 
Shattuck;  to  Mr.  Ray  D.  Smith;  to  Mrs.  Helen  Ekin  Sterrett, 
for  the  verses  by  the  late  Frances  Ekin  Allison;  to  Mr.  Herbert 
Stuart  Stone,  for  an  inclusive  permission  to  use  verses  from 
The  Chap  Book;  to  Mr.  Ivan  Swift;  to  Mr.  Bert  Leston  Taylor; 
to  Mrs.  Caroline  Twyman,  for  the  verses  of  the  late  Joseph 
Twyman;  to  Clarence  Urmy  and  Messrs,  the  Frank  A.  Munsey 
Company,  for  "The  Judgment  Book";  to  Mr.  Ernest  L.  Valen 
tine;  to  Mr.  Culver  Van  Sly  eke;  to  Mrs.  Ellen  Rolfe  Veblen; 
to  Mr.  Nixon  Waterman  and  Messrs.  Forbes  &  Company,  for 
"The  Man  in  the  Cab";  to  Mr.  William  Wallace  Whitelock 
and  Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company,  for  "There  Were  Giants 
in  Those  Days,"  from  "When  the  Heart  is  Young";  to  Miss 
Florence  Wilkinson  and  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company, 
for  "Boys  and  Girls,"  from  "Kings  and  Queens";  to  Mrs.  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox  and  Messrs,  the  W.  B.  Conkey  Company,  for 
"True  Charity,"  from  "Poems  of  Power";  to  Mr.  Edward 
Winship;  to  Mr.  Edward  Ryan  Woodle;  to  Mr.  Clement  V. 
Zane;  and  to  the  many  more  whose  work,  anonymous  and  other, 
has  been  taken  from  the  columns  of  the  daily  newspapers  through 
a  series  of  many  years,  with  all  thanks  for  such  verses,  which 
have  finally  made  this  collection  possible. 


INTRODUCTION 

"WHEN  Longfellow  wrote  "The  Day  is  Done"  in  1844, 
with  the  line  of  advice,  "  Read  from  some  humbler 
poet,"  from  which  the  title  of  this  volume  and  its  pre 
decessor  is  derived,  he  left  the  meaning  of  the  phrase 
quite  clear  in  one  respect:  just  before  he  says,  specifi 
cally,  that  in  so  reading  one  is  not  to  seek  his  consola 
tion  "from  the  grand  old  masters,  not  from  the  bards 
sublime."  So  far,  then,  he  evidently  intends  to  include 
among  the  humbler  poets  all  who  do  not  fall  within 
the  select  and  august  company  designated,  yet  are 
indeed  true  poets  within  their  smaller  and  nearer  field. 
During  the  compilation  of  this  volume  many  were 
asked  exactly  what  the  phrase  signifies  to  them,  and 
however  various  the  answers,  they  are  not  irreconcilable 
with  one  another.  To  one,  the  humbler  poet  is  he 
whose  work  is  generally  disregarded  by  the  public.  To 
a  second,  it  signifies  the  writer  of  fugitive  verse.  To  a 
third,  he  who  writes  occasionally,  without  being  a  pro 
fessed  poet,  either  in  his  own  estimation  or  that  of 
others.  A  fourth  takes  it  to  mean  the  newspaper 
versifier,  from  him  who  fills  the  "Poet's  Corner"  in 
the  rural  weekly  to  the  almost  preposterously  versatile 
person  attached  to  the  staff  of  a  daily  metropolitan 
journal.  Still  a  fifth  identifies,  as  Longfellow  does, 
the  word  "humbler"  with  "minor."  And  Mr.  Slason 
Thompson,  in  his  explanatory  note  to  the  First  Series 
of  "The  Humbler  Poets,"  appears  to  cut  the  knot  by 
making  the  demarcation  "almost  arbitrarily  along  the 
line  of  the  collected  works  of  the  'Lesser  Poets.'"  In 


Vll 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

other  words,  he  included  in  the  previous  volume  only 
such  verses  as  had  not  been  printed  in  other  published 
books,  giving  his  work  thereby  a  value,  as  it  had  an 
originality,  which  leaves  it  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  a 
century  still  popular,  still  filling  a  place  not  trespassed 
upon  by  any  other  collection  of  verse. 

Analysis  will  make  it  evident  that  all  these  defini 
tions,  practical  and  theoretical,  come  to  a  single  end, 
and  that  this  is  the  end  the  Cambridge  poet  himself 
had  in  mind.  Practically  all  contemporary  poetry  is 
disregarded  by  the  public.  In  consequence  it  is,  speak 
ing  quite  accurately,  fugitive.  Of  necessity,  verse 
writers  to-day  are,  with  few  exceptions,  not  professed 
poets  and  will  certainly  admit  themselves  not  to  be 
bards  sublime,  whether  their  effusions  are  printed  in 
the  newspapers  or  in  the  magazines.  All,  therefore, 
are  minor  poets.  Mr.  Thompson's  line  of  demarca 
tion,  moreover,  did  not  remain  permanently  drawn, 
for  no  small  proportion  of  the  verses  he  gathered  with 
such  discrimination  have  been  included,  during  the 
twenty-five  years  which  have  since  elapsed,  in  the  col 
lected  works  of  the  lesser  poets. 

All,  it  would  seem,  are  in  accord  with  Longfellow, 
with  the  exception  of  one  verse  writer  who  was  vastly 
insulted  at  not  being  ranked  with  the  bards  sublime 
and  grand  old  masters,  and  one  magazine  editor  who 
exhibited  a  somewhat  similar,  vicarious,  fear  for  a  con 
tributor.  That  "humbler,"  "lesser,"  or  "minor" 
carries  with  it  any  pejorative  signification  or  is  deroga 
tory  to  those  whose  work  is  included  hardly  requires 
denial.  All,  it  will  be  noted,  accord  to  them  the  supreme 
title  of  "poet,"  itself  an  appellation  of  such  magnitude 
that  it  necessarily  connotes  the  highest  honor.  More 
over,  every  bard  sublime,  every  grand  old  master, 
whose  works  as  a  whole  have  survived,  has  been  not 
only  a  major  poet,  but,  since  the  greater  includes  the 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

less,  a  minor  poet  as  well.  Certainly  not  in  the  works 
of  the  great  men  of  the  age  just  passed,  of  Tennyson, 
Browning,  Swinburne,  Arnold,  and  William  Morris, 
of  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Lowell,  Holmes,  and 
Hovey,  are  there  lacking  numerous  specimens  of  what, 
had  their  major  poems  remained  unwritten,  is  in  no 
way  distinguishable  from  minor  poetry.  In  fact,  an 
arbitrary  definition  might  almost  be  made  between 
the  two  classes  by  regarding  their  respective  produc 
tion  in  the  heroic  measure.  If  these  achievements 
be  set  aside,  the  residue,  however  brilliant,  inspired, 
and  imperishable,  is  minor  poetry  in  quite  a  real  sense. 
Are  not  all  lyrics  essentially  thus  to  be  ranked?  Is  not 
all  gnomic,  narrative,  and  descriptive  verse,  if  not  of 
sustained  flight,  minor  poetry?  Is  any  sonnet  achieve 
ment,  even  Wordsworth's  or  Longfellow's,  taken  by 
itself,  sufficient  to  gain  the  greater  title? 

By  mere  coincidence,  the  collection  of  verses  upon 
which  this  Second  Series  of  "The  Humbler  Poets"  is 
founded  began  during  the  year  in  which  Mr.  Thomp 
son's  First  Series  was  published.  Marching  from  the 
point  where  his  ended,  it  has  been  steadily  augmented 
year  by  year  since.  The  larger  share  of  it  has  been 
taken  from  newspapers,  which  accounts  for  so  many 
specimens  of  needless  anonymity.  This  has  been  sup 
plemented  through  the  months  by  extensive  and  assidu 
ous  reading  of  the  collected  works  of  the  lesser  poets, 
differing  in  this  respect  —  and  differing  only  nominally, 
as  has  been  shown  —  from  its  predecessor.  It  includes 
the  verses  of  many  poets  in  England,  Scotland,  Ireland, 
Canada,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  and  the  United 
States  whose  achievements  are  not  within  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  general  public,  but  are  treasured  by  those 
who  believe,  with  the  compilers,  that  the  mighty  arm 
of  English  poethood  has  not  been  shortened  by  the 
passing  of  the  great  men  and  women  of  the  Victorian 


x  INTRODUCTION 

era,  but  has  rather  indulged  itself  in  a  wider  and  more 
democratic  distribution  of  the  favors  which  lay  on  the 
knees  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses. 

Not  many  realize,  though  the  fact  remains,  that 
there  are  now  publishing  in  English  during  every 
calendar  year  no  fewer  than  a  hundred  volumes  of 
significant  and  worthy  verse,  to  which  may  be  added 
two  hundred  volumes  more  which  frequently  contain 
passages  of  beauty.  This  implies  that  there  are  in  the 
English-speaking  world  at  least  three  hundred  men  and 
women  who,  already  masters  of  an  intricate  and 
delightful  technique,  are  inspired  by  sentiments  lofty 
or  tender,  such  as  make  for  literary  permanency.  It  is 
earnestly  believed  to  be  possible  to  compile  every  year 
from  the  verses  given  the  light  of  print  during  that 
time  an  anthology  of  short  poems  and  excerpts  which 
will  compare  favorably  with  any  collection  thus 
chronologically  delimited  gathered  during  any  period 
of  English  literary  history.  Such  a  collection,  so  we 
feel  assured,  would  suffer  little,  if  at  all,  by  comparison 
with  the  most  brilliant  twelvemonth  of  either  the 
Elizabethan  or  Victorian  era. 

A  curious  analogy  might  be  drawn  between  the 
literary  situation  to-day  and  that  prevailing  in  the 
spacious  days  that  saw  the  English  settlement  of 
America.  In  that  earlier  period  the  dominant  form 
of  expression  was  through  the  drama,  and  the  great 
minds  of  the  age,  of  which  Shakespeare's  is  the  im 
mortal  master,  gave  to  the  stage  the  benefits  of  their 
inspiration.  For  a  generation  past  it  has  been  chiefly 
through  the  novel  or  romance  that  the  literary  genius 
of  the  age  finds  its  expression.  In  both  periods  there 
exist  songs  and  lyrics,  fine  flights  of  sympathy,  and 
outbursts  of  religious  and  patriotic  fervor,  which  are  a 
perpetual  glory  and  delight  to  those  who  have  made 
them  their  own.  Many  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

sang  the  sweetest  of  lyrics,  both  in  and  out  of  their 
plays.  Many  of  the  novelists  of  the  present  age  have 
exhibited  a  similar  pleasant  versatility.  R.  D.  Black- 
more,  George  Meredith,  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy,  Sir 
Arthur  Conan  Doyle,  and  Mr.  Maurice  Hewlett,  in 
England,  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett,  Mrs.  Edith 
Wharton,  Miss  Alice  Brown,  Mr.  Owen  Wister,  and 
Mr.  Meredith  Nicholson,  in  America,  may  be  cited  as 
instances  sufficiently  confirmatory  of  this. 

Singular  injustice  would  have  been  done  our  own 
age  if  contemporary  odes  and  lyrics  which  are  by 
true  poets  had  not  been  incorporated  here,  though  the 
intention  has  been  to  include  the  work  of  men  and 
women  less  well  known,  even  to  instances  of  the  poems 
produced  by  school-children,  by  clergymen,  lawyers, 
and  physicians  in  active  practice  of  their  professions, 
and  by  men  in  commercial  business.  Living  newspaper 
poets  are  quite  fully  represented,  men  whose  journalistic 
duties  day  by  day  have  not  stood  in  the  way  of  their 
pursuit  of  the  beautiful  in  phrase  and  sentiment.  Nor 
are  those  excluded  whose  verses  have  found  popular 
acceptance,  as  evidenced  by  their  frequent  citation 
in  the  daily  press.  Indeed,  little  or  nothing  is  quoted 
here  which  has  not  withstood  this  test,  and  few,  if  any, 
of  the  poems  in  this  book  have  not  been  clipped  from 
journals  at  home  or  abroad.  If  any  specific  plan  of 
exclusion  has  been  kept  in  mind,  the  lines  have  been 
drawn  against  the  work  of  persons  well  known  in  the 
United  States,  and  against  rhymes  which  have  not 
been  able  to  endure  "the  test  of  the  market/'  to  use 
Professor  Henry  Augustin  Beers's  apt  phrase,  by  com 
manding  the  attention  of  the  press.  And,  as  the  press 
serves  a  vast  and  heterogeneous  public,  it  is  believed 
that  there  will  be  found  something  for  every  taste, 
from  the  most  fastidious  and  refined  to  the  least 
impressionable  and  reflective.  Necessarily,  in  making 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

so  wide  an  appeal,  material  will  be  found  for  rejection 
by  all  save  the  completely  omnivorous  in  literature. 
Necessarily,  too,  the  book  could  have  been  almost 
indefinitely  expanded  without  a  lowering  of  the  stand 
ard  set  for  the  series. 

As  for  the  decadence  in  contemporary  poetry  of 
which  too  much  is  heard,  complaints  of  this  nature 
seem  to  be  founded  solely  upon  lack  of  knowledge. 
On  one  hand  there  is  a  lamentable  ignorance  of  what  is 
actually  being  done  at  the  present  moment  in  the 
absence  of  commanding  names;  on  the  other,  a  pitiful 
forgetfulness  of  the  attitude  of  the  reading  public 
toward  contemporary  poets  throughout  the  annals  of 
literary  history:  Homer  was  a  blind  beggar,  and 
Shakespeare  an  eager  seeker  after  the  favors  of  the 
nobility;  instances  are  too  familiar  to  require  multi 
plication.  The  point  is  this:  No  one  can  assert  ours 
to  be  an  age  in  which  poetry  is  lacking  who  has  failed 
to  read  its  own  poets;  no  one  can  dismiss  it  as  an 
unpoetic  age  because  he,  with  the  rest,  pays  no  attention 
to  its  living  singers,  when  this  has  been  the  attitude 
of  every  public  in  every  age  toward  its  bards,  with 
remarkably  few  exceptions.  Mrs.  Browning  notes  that 
"poets  e.vermore  are  scant  of  gold,"  and  characterizes 
contemporary  appreciation  at  its  best  when  she  writes: 

"  I  did  some  excellent  things  indifferently, 
Some  bad  things  excellently.     Both  were  praised, 
The  latter  loudest." 

Those  who  speak  after  full  acquaintance  with  the 
poetry  of  to-day,  and  therefore  with  authority,  have 
not  hesitated  at  high  praise.  John  Churton  Collins, 
erudite  scholar  and  astute  critic,  pronounces  for  them  all 
when  he  says  of  the  humbler  poets  of  England:  "Be 
tween  1860  and  the  present  time  talent  has  undoubtedly 
been  more  conspicuous  than  genius,  but  genius  has  not 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

been  rare,  and  the  talent  displayed,  the  standard 
reached  in  taste,  in  receptivity,  in  technique,  and  in 
expression  are  truly  wonderful.  It  would  be  no. 
exaggeration  to  say  that  many  and  very  many  of  the 
minor  poets  of  the  last  sixty  years  would,  had  they 
lived  a  century  and  a  half  ago,  have  become  famous." 
In  America  one  need  not  go  back  so  far;  more  than  half 
the  poems  in  the  lamented  Stedman's  "  American  An 
thology"  are  by  his  contemporaries  and  juniors,  and  in 
its  introduction  he  says,  and  in  such  a  case  his  judgment 
is  final,  "It  will  be  long  before  our  people  need  fear  even 
the  springtime  enervation  of  their  instinctive  sense  of 
beauty,  now  more  in  evidence  with  every  year." 

Collins  noted  with  approbation  one  of  the  satisfac 
tions  resulting  from  a  knowledge  of  contemporary 
minor  poetry,  when  he  dwelt  upon  the  significant  fact 
that  the  humbler  poet  now  and  again  strikes  a  note 
which  gives  the  key  to  efforts  of  supreme  excellence  at 
a  later  day.  Keats  wrote  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci " 
in  a  style  so  little  his  own,  yet  so  anticipatory  of  a 
remarkable  later  development,  that  the  poem  seems 
justly  attributable  to  any  writer  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood,  rather  than  to  its  author;  Macaulay 
sang  the  lay  of  "The  Last  Buccaneer"  in  a  manner 
which  leaves  it  unique  among  his  ballads,  and  rather 
more  Kiplingesque  than  most  of  Mr.  Kipling's  own 
work.  It  is  quite  possible  that  the  years  to  come  will 
find  a  similar  prophecy  in  this  very  volume. 

To  the  rapid  broadening  of  the  field  of  poetry  in 
the  United  States  this  collection  also  bears  witness. 
Several  chapters  contain  material  not  included  in  Mr. 
Thompson's  earlier  province,  notably  one  dealing  with 
the  verses  of  athletics,  and  another  voicing  the  social 
yearning  for  an  economics  founded  on  righteousness. 
In  this  latter  field,  even  our  humorous  rhymesters 
have  played  a  considerable  part. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

Since  it  has  not  been  noted  elsewhere,  it  deserves 
to  be  set  down  here  that  the  Limerick,  of  which  this 
book  contains  a  few  examples,  has  not  previously  been 
traced  back  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Yet  it  owes 
its  form  to  rare  old  Ben  Jonson,  who  anticipated 
modernity  in  this  as  in  the  form  of  the  stanza  of  "In 
Memoriam."  In  Professor  Edward  Arber's  "English 
Songs:  Jonson  and  His  Times"  will  be  found  the 
following  perfect  Limericks,  written  before  the  settle 
ment  of  Boston: 

"To  the  old,  long  life  and  treasure ! 
To  the  young,  all  health  and  pleasure ! 
To  the  fair,  their  face 
With  eternal  grace ! 
And  the  foul,  to  be  loved  at  leisure ! 

"To  the  witty,  all  clear  mirrors ! 
To  the  foolish,  their  dark  errors ! 

To  the  loving  sprite, 

A  secure  delight ! 
To  the  jealous,  their  own  false  terrors!" 

Summing  up  this  volume,  it  epitomizes,  however 
unworthily,  the  poetic  sentiment  of  the  quarter  cen 
tury  from  which  it  derives  its  contents,  and  reflects 
back  to  the  reader  some  small  share  of  one  of  the  most 
interesting  periods  in  the  history  of  civilization.  It 
should  arouse  interest  in  the  poetry  of  the  day  and  in 
its  poets;  and  if  it  remove  by  even  a  little  the  stigma 
that  rests  on  ages  past  for  their  neglect  of  their  singers, 
and  leave  one  minstrel  the  less  to  perish  for  renown,  it 
will  not  have  failed  entirely  of  its  ultimate  ideals.  For, 
mark  you  well,  "the  weary  toiling  for  a  bitter  bread" 
is  ours  to  remedy,  and  the  duty  it  implies  not  one  to  be 
honorably  delegated. 

W.  AND  F.  R. 

CHICAGO,  January,  1911. 


CONTENTS 


PART   I  — THE   WORLD'S   SINGERS 


The  Music-Makers    . 
To  a  Violin    .... 

Prophecy 

A  New  Poet  .... 
A  Song  About  Singing  . 

My  Wish 

The  Price        .... 
Aspiration        .... 
To  a  Fashionable  Poet 
The  Poet's  Prayer    .      . 
De  Amicitiis  .... 
Mutatis  Mutandis     . 
To  a  Belated  Genius      . 
The  World's  Way     .      . 
Ballade  d'Aujourd'hui    . 


Arthur  0' Shaughnessy 
Bertha  F.  Gordon 
Leonora  Pease 
William  Canton    . 
Anne  Reeve  Aldrich 
Warren  Pease 
William  Canton    . 
C.  E.  D.  Phelps    . 
Frank  Putnam 
Ivan  Swift 
Eugene  Field  . 
Margaret  Van  S.  Rice 
William  Theodore  Peters 
Anonymous 
Coates  Chapman  . 


PAGE 

2 
3 
3 
4 
4 
5 
5 
5 


7 

8 

9 

10 

10 


PART  II  — IN   CHILDHOOD'S  KINGDOM 


In  the  Garden 

Willow  Ware 

•Willie's  Recitation     . 
Granny's  Little  Flock    . 

Children 

Our  Little  Daughter  .  .  . 
Maxima  Reverentia  .  .  .  . 

Father  Goose 

Happiness 

The  Dead  Pussy  Cat     .      .      . 

Table  Manners 

At  Night 

Edelweiss         

To  a  Maid  of  Thirteen       .      . 

Laus  Infantium 

Poppy-Land  Express      .      .      . 

Captain  Bing 

A  Horrible  Example 

The  Touch  of  Children's  Hands 

A  Real  Boy 

Consoling  Billy 

Queen  of  Her  Heart       .      .      . 

Boys  and  Girls    . 

Put  to  Sleep  .      . 

A  Sweet-Eyed  Child       .      . 

My  Little  Dear   . 

To  a  Child i 

A  Mortifying  Mistake  .  .  . 
A  Little  Girl  in  School  .  . 
The  Days  of  Sun 


Ernest  Crosby        ....  13 

Anonymous 13 

Anonymous 14 

Charles  J.  Hanford     ...  15 

Madeline  Bridges        ...  16 

Anonymous 16 

F.  B.  Money-Coutts   ...  16 

L.  Frank  Baum    ....  19 

E.  A.  Brininstool       ...  20 

Anonymous 21 

Oliver  Marble 22 

Mary  Baldwin      ....  22 

Warren  Pease        ....  23 

Christopher  Bannister      .      .  23 

William  Canton    ....  24 

Edgar  W.  Abbot    ....  24 

L.  Frank  Baum    ....  25 

Oliver  Marble 26 

John  Jarvis  Holden    ...  26 

Wilbur  D.  Nesbit        ...  26 

Eva  Steel 27 

Elliott  Flower 28 

Florence  Wilkinson    ...  29 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick  29 

Agnes  Lee        ....  29 

Dollie  Radford      ...  30 

Frank  Putnam      ...  30 

Anna  M.  Pratt     ...  31 

Frances  Viola  Holden      .  32 

Ernest  L.  Valentine    .      .  32 
XV 


xvi 


CONTENTS 


PART   III  — THE   REALM   OF  FAERY 


The  Dream  of  a  Dreamer  . 

Anonymous     35 

The  Were-  Wolves      .... 

William  Wilfred  Campbell    .       35 

Quatrains  of  Idleness 

Edwin  Lefevre       ....        37 

The  Seekers 

John  Masefield      ....        38 

The  Recall      

Frank  Lillie  Pollock         .      .       39 

Castles  in  the  Air    .... 

William  J.  Lampton        .      .       39 

The  Fairy  Thrall       .... 

Mary  C.  G.  Byron      ...        40 

A  Sailor's  Summons 

Flavia  Rosser  41 

The  Phantom  Liner 

Anonymous     41 

All  Souls'  Night  

Dora  Sigerson        ....        43 

A.  Legend                                  • 

Mav  Kendall  .                                    43 

PART   IV  —  YULETIDE   HAPPINESS 

Christmas  Carol  

Phillips  Brooks     ....        46 

The  Christmas  Tree  of  the  Angels 

Angela  Morgan     ....        47 

To  an  Old  Fogy,  who  Contends 

that  Christmas  is  Worn  Out 

Owen  Seaman        ....        48 

Recurring  Yuletide    .... 

Joseph  Twyman    ....        49 

The  Christmas  Babe 

Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson    .        49 

Happy  Christmastide 

Gertrude  Eloise  Bealer      .      .        50 

In  Christmas  Land    .... 

Anonymous      50 

A  Yuletide  Tale  

Anonymous      51 

Old  Tom  Tusser's  Advice   . 

Ernest  L.  Valentine    ...        52 

What  the  Three  Little  Stockings 

Said  

Alice  J.  Whitney  ....        53 

Christmas  Bells    

Anonymous     54 

The  Best  Tree     

Anonymous      55 

Christmas  Bells    

Anonymous      56 

The  New  Christmas 

E.  Nesbit   58 

Christmas  Shadows 

Anonymous     59 

Christmas  New    

Joseph  Twyman    ....        60 

Old  Year,  Good-Night!        .      . 

Alexander  Maclean    ...       61 

New  Year,  Good-Morning! 

Alexander  Maclean     ...        61 

The  Glad  New  Year      .      .      . 

William  Shattuck        ...       62 

PART  V  —  UNDER   GOD'S  HEAVENS 

Wait     

Timothy  Otis  Paine    ...        64 

The  First  of  April    .... 

Mortimer  Collins  ....        65 

A  Vagabond  Song     .      . 

John  Northern  Hilliard  .      .       65 

Nature       

Winifred  Lucas     ....        66 

The   Song   of   the  Wind  in  the 

Cloud 

Ellen  Rolfe  Veblen                         67 

Strayed       

C.  E.  S.  Wood      ....       67 

The  Orchard 

John  Jarvis  H  olden    .      .      .        68 

A  Gypsy  Song     ..... 

Anonymous     68 

Swiss  Mountains  by  Night 

F.  B.  Money-Coutts    ...        69 

Iris 

C.  E.  D.  Phelps    ....       69 

The  Prescience  of  the  Rose 

Angela  Morgan     ....        70 

The  Rosy  Musk-Mallow 

Alice  E.  Gillington     ...       70 

Wild  Roses  and  Snow    . 

Mackenzie  Bell      ....       71 

The  Blue-Bird 

Marion  Thornton  Egbert        .       72 

On  the  Prairie     

Herbert  Bates  72 

The  Blue  Gentians   .... 

Edward  Ryan  Woodle      .      .       73 

To  a  Flock  of  Geese      .      .      . 

Clark  McAdams   ....       73 

The  Fall  Wind 

John  Stuart  Thomson      .      .       74 

To  a  Daisy    . 

John  Hartley         ....       74 

CONTENTS 


xvn 


A  Song  for  October 
The  First  Bud  o'  the  Year      . 
A  Rose       
The  Eagle 

PAGE 

T.  A.  Daly      ....              75 

Charles  G.  Blanden    ...        76 
Charles  G.  Blanden    ...        76 
Timothy  Otis  Paine          .      .       77 

Ivan  Swift        .      .                           77 

The  Timber  Wolves       .      . 
A  Leaf 

John  McGovern     ....       79 
Charles  James       ....        79 
Theodore  Roberts                             80 
W.  P.  Trent    80 
John  Jarvis  H  olden    ...       81 
John  Davidson      ....        82 
Mary  Baldwin      ....       82 
Anonymous      83 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson    .       83 
Oscar  Williams     ....        83 
Herbert  P.  Home        ...       84 
Frank  L.  Stanton        ...        84 
George  Herbert  Clarke       .      .        85 
William  Shattuck        ...       85 
Edward  Winship  ....       86 

IT   IN   THE   OPEN 

Wallace  Rice   88 
Franklin  P.  Adams    ...        89 
F.  V.  N.  Painter  ....        90 
Charles  H.  Crandall  ...       90 
Charles  H.  Crandall   ...        91 
William  F.  Kirk  ....       92 
Anonymous     92 
Oliver  Marble  93 
George  Ade      94 
Ivan  Swift       95 
Anonymous     96 
William  Hamilton  Cline        .       96 
Horace  Spencer  Fiske       .      .        97 
Evelyn  Gail  Gardiner       .      .       98 
Dorothy  Allen        ....       98 
Louis  Albert  Lamb     ...       99 
Horace  Spencer  Fiske       .      .       99 

C.  P.  McDonald  ....      100 

Where  the  Mountain  Sips  the  Sea 
Socobie's  Passing       .... 
The  New  Aphrodite 
My  Lady  Anemone  .... 
Harvest-Home  Song 
Winter 

Where  My  Treasure  Is  ... 
The  Torrent   
The  Spirit  of  the  North      .      . 
Amico  Suo      
The  Blessed  Rain      .... 
A  Foretaste  of  Spring    . 
Silver  and  Lavender 
Ei  i  th  an  asi  a 

PART  VI  —  SPOI 

The  College  Athlete 
A  Ballade  of  Lawn  Tennis 
My  Bicycle     
The  Call  of  the  Stream       .      . 
The  Cinder  Path       .... 
Ballade  of  the  Fan 
Baseball  by  the  Old       ... 
A  Summer  Sermon  for  Men     . 
The  Glorious  Touchdown    . 
Regatta      
Vive  le  Roi  ' 

The  Glory  of  the  Game 
The  Song  of  the   Light    Canoe 
With  Gleaming  Sail        .      .      . 
Sailing        
Beth-el        
Olympian  Victors       .      .      .      . 
The    Slugger's    Farewell  to  His 
War  Club 

The  Ski-Runner         .... 
A  Ballade  of  the  Game 

PART   VII  —  THE   C 

Love  and  a  Day        .... 
Afterglow                      .... 

Anonymous      101 
Anonymous     101 

JENTLER  EMOTIONS 

Madison  Cawein  .      .      .      .      104 
Charles  G.  Blanden    ...      105 
Anonymous     105 
Theodosia  Garrison    .      .      .      105 
D.  H.  Ingham       ....      106 
Frank  L.  Stanton        ...      106 

Willard  Emerson  Keyes         .      107 
Gerald  Gould   108 
Angela  Morgan     .      .      .      .      108 
Walter  Learned     ....      108 

To  a  Pair  of  Lovers 
Cupid  —  His  Mark    .... 
Reciprocity     ....... 
Wearyin'  for  You      .... 
I  Know  the  Way  of  the  Wild 
Blush  Rose        
-Wanderlust      
Love's  Telepathy       .... 
The  Prime  of  Life    .... 

CONTENTS 


A  Valentine 

Love,  Youth,  Song   .... 

Beloved 

To  God  and  Ireland  True     . 

Procrastination 

To  My  Fiancde 

Babette 

Inopportune 

I  Think  of  Thee       .... 
Over  the  Rose-Lea ves,  Under  the 

Rose 

The  Table  d'Hote     .... 

A  Greeting 

Last  Night 

Love's  Secret  Name 

Liking  and  Loving    .... 

Spirit  Bridal 

'My  Love  for  You     .... 

A  Reminiscence 

"Oh,  See  How  Thick!"       .      . 
A  Border  Affair         .... 

A  Full  Edition 

The  Sliprails  and  the  Spur 
Scheme  Rothraut        .... 

Doris 

Strawberries 

The  Links  of  Love   .... 

All  That  I  Ask 

A  Woman 

Asphodel 

Love's  Cup 

Blanche      

Shadows     .      .  .... 

Aucassin  et  Nicolete 

Memories 

A  Blood-Red  Ring  Hung  Round 

the  Moon 

With  You        .      .    ' .      .      .      . 

0  Love,  O   Love,  How   Long? 

Love  and  War 

A  Prayer 

Philomel 

The  Parting 

Love's  Delay 

Had  You  Waited      .... 

1  Love  My  Love  with  a  Kiss 


PAGE 

Joseph  Twyman   .      .      .      .  109 

John  Jarvis  H olden    .      .      .  109 

Mabel  C.  Anderson     .      .      .  110 

Ellen  O'Leary        .      .      .      .  Ill 

George  W.  Markens    .      .      .  Ill 

Franklin  P.  Adams    .      .      .  112 

Anonymous 112 

Thomas  H.  Briggs,  Jr.     .      .112 

Kate  Goldsboro  McDowell      .  112 

John  Bennett         .      .      .      .  113 

John  Paul  Bocock       .      .      .  114 

Joseph  Twyman    .      .      .      .  115 

Warren  Pease        .      .      .      .  116 

John  Arthur  Blaikie  .      .      .  116 

Oliver  Marble 117 

Jessie  Storrs  Ferris     .      .      .  117 

Angela  Morgan     .      .      .      .  117 

Oliver  Marble 118 

Alfred  Edward  Housman       .  119 
Charles  B.  Clarke,  Jr.      .      .120 

Joseph  Lilienthal        .      .      .  121 

Henry  Lawson       .      .      .      .  121 

John  Arthur  Goodchild     .      .  122 

Clarence  S.  Harper     .      .      .  123 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick  124 

Owen  Seaman        .      .      .      .  124 

Bert  Lesion  Taylor      .      .      .  125 

Emily  Huntington  Miller      .  125 

Willa  Sibert  Gather     .      .      .  126- 

Robert  Cameron  Rogers    .      .  126 

A.  Bernard  Miall        .      .      .  126 

Victor  Plarr 127 

Grace  Duffield  Goodwin    .      .  128 

Alexander  Hay  Japp        .      .  128 

John  E.  Logan      ....  129 

Thomas  H.  Briggs,  Jr.     .      .  129 

Edward  Cracroft  Lefroy   .      .  129 

Arthur  Pachett  Martin     .      .  130 
Selwyn  Image        .... 

John  Myers  O'Hara         .      .  131 

Anonymous 133 

Edward  Cracroft  Lefroy   .      .  134 

Ernest  Dowson      ....  135 

Alexander  Maclean    .      .      .  136 


PART   VIII  —  DRAWING-ROOM   AND   BOUDOIR 


With  a  Diamond  Fede  Ring  on 
an  Old  Venetian  Mirror  . 

The  Larceny 

The  Curling  Tongs   . 
Margery  Maketh  the  Tea  . 
The  Leisure  Classes 
Betty  to  Herself        . 
Song  of  the  Summer  Girl   . 
Grandmother's  Valentine     . 
A  Geographic  Question 


William  Theodore  Peters        .  138 

Elliott  Flower 139 

Anonymous 139 

William  Wilfred  Campbell  140 

Anonymous 141 

Edward  W.  Bannard        .      .  141 

Anonymous 142 

Minna  Irving 142 

Anonymous 144 


CONTENTS 


xix 


At  the  Concert 

An  "Old  Maid" 

Times  Ain't  What  They  Was  . 
On  the  Way  Home  .... 
A  Daughter  of  the  Revolution 
After  Reading  a  Chapter  by 

Henry  James 

A  Lost  Talisman 


Ray  Clarke  Rose 
Ray  Clarke  Rose 
Anonymous 
Chester  Firkins 
^Anonymous 


Anonymous 
Ray  Clarke  Rose 


144 
145 
146 
146 
147 

147 

148 


PART   IX  — MAN'S   BROTHERHOOD 


Recessional 

•Dat's  Right,  Ain't  It?  .      .      . 
Osman  Aga's  Devotion 
The  Man  with  the  Hoe 
The    Man    with    the  Hoe  —  A 

Reply 

The  Man  without  the  Hoe 
The  Contemptible  Neutral 
The  Unmercenaries   .... 
Suffrage  Marching  Song 

Livingstone 

"As  Thyself" 

A  Cry  from  the  Ghetto  (from  the 

Yiddish  of  Morris  Rosenfeld) 

Revenge 

Christmas  Outcasts 

The  Poor  Man's  Automobile   . 

Child  Labor 

To  Labor 

A  .Political  Character     . 

Despoiled 

The  Clerks 

Beyond  the  Bars       .... 

The  Wanderer 

Where  Tyrants  Perish    . 
The  Eagle  and  the  Lion      . 
To  the  Money-Getter    . 

Piper,  Play 

Arise,  Ye  Men  of  Strength  and 

Might 

In  Poverty  Street      .... 
St.    Anthony's    Sermon   to   the 

Fishes     .      .      . 

New  York 

Little  Girl  of  Long  Ago 


Rudyard  Kipling        .      .      .  151 

Ben  King 152 

Clinton  Scollard    ....  152 

Edwin  Markham  .      .      .      .  153 

John  Vance  Cheney    .      .      .  154 
Gordon  Coogler      .      .      .      .156 

Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson       .  157 

Anonymous 158 

Louis  J.  Block       ....  159 

Francis  Brooks      ....  160 

Anonymous 161 

J.  W.  Linn 162 

Charles  Henry  Webb  .      .      .  162 

Anonymous 163 

Edwin  L.  Sabin    ....  163 

Anonymous 164 

Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson       .  165 

Israel  Zangwill     ....  166 

George  E.  Bowen  .      .      .      .  166 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson    .  167 
George  E.  Bowen  .      .      .      .168 

William  Canton    ....  168 

John  Lancaster  Spalding       .  168 

George  Frederick   ....  169 

Anonymous 169 

John  Davidson      .      .      .      .  170 

Charles  James       .      .      .      .  171 

Elliott  Flower        .      ...  172 

Anonymous 173 

Richard  Hovey      .      ,      .      .  174 

Joe  Cone    .  177 


PART  X  — THE  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO 


The  Shoogy-Shoo       .      .      . 
In  Calm  Content 
Ballad  of  the  Primrose  Way 
A  Recollection      .... 

Success 

The  Vagabonds    . 

The  Old  House    .... 

A  Boy's  Whistle 

You  Have  Forgotten 


Winthrop  Packard      ...  178 

Anonymous      .....  178 

Rose  Edith  Mills  ....  179 

Anonymous 180 

May  Kendall 180 

E.  Pauline  Johnson   .      .      .  182 

Grace  Duffie  Boylan   .      .      .  183 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis      .      .  183 

Angela  Morgan     ....  184 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

In  the  Procession      .... 

Anonymous     

185 

First  Love       

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 

185 

"There   were   Giants  in   Those 

Days  "                                   . 

William  Wallace  Whitelock  . 

185 

Christmas  Long  Ago 

Anne  H.  Woodruff     .      .      . 

186 

A  School  Companionship     . 

Anonymous      • 

187 

The  Chop-House  in  the  Alley 

Henry  M.  Hyde    .                  ". 

188 

In  Days  Gone  By    .... 

Lilla  Cabot  Perry        .      .'     . 

189 

An  Old  Picture 

Oliver  Marble                    .      . 

189 

Long  Ago  and  Far  Away   . 

Culver  Van  Slycke      .      .      . 

190 

PART   XI  —  BETWEEN 

DARK   AND   DAYLIGHT 

Crossing  the  Bar       .... 

Alfred  Lord  Tennyson 

192 

Twilight     .      

Olive  Constance 

193 

Approach  of  Night   .... 

Clarence  Urmy      .      .      . 

193 

Homeward       

Gustave  Kobbe 

194 

A  Twilight  Song        .... 

Edward  Maslin  Hulme    . 

194 

The  End  of  the  Day     .      .      . 

Duncan  Campbell  Scott    . 

195 

The  Evening  Primrose   . 

Timothy  Otis  Paine    .      . 

196 

The  Two  Twilights  .... 

Anonymous      .... 

196 

In  the  Convent  Garden 

Edward  Maslin  Hulme    . 

196 

At  Twilight    

Peyton  Van  Rensselaer    . 

197 

Twilight  Cheer     

Clement  V.  Zane  . 

197 

Twilight  Terror    

Georgiana  Rice 

197 

To  a  Water-Lily        .... 

Anonymous     .... 

198 

PART   XII  —  AROUND   THE   HEARTHSTONE 

The  Home  Port  

Edith  Pratt  Dickens   .      .      . 

200 

Mothers     

Edwin  L.  Sabin    .... 

201 

My  Gentleman     

Anonymous      

201 

Yo'  Maw  Lubs  Yo'  All       .      . 

Florence  Griswold  Connor 

202 

What  My  Mother  is  to  Me     . 

David  Stearns        .... 

203 

The  Light  in  Mother's  Eyes    . 

L.  M.  Montgomery     ,      .      . 

204 

Old  Mothers 

Charles  S.  Ross     .      .      .      i 

205 

My  Girl    

Anonymous      

205 

"She  Made  Home  Happy" 

Henry  Coyle    

206 

Mother       

Titus  Lowe      

207 

A  Ballade  of  Labor   and  Love 

Anonymous      .      .      ...      • 

207 

Kiss  the  Dear  Old  Mother 

Josephine  Pollard 

208 

The  Home  Express 

Horace  Spencer  Fiske 

209 

My  Sister's  Room     .      .      . 

F.  B.  Money-Coutts    . 

210 

Before  It  is  Too  Late    . 

George  Bancroft  Griffith   . 

210 

Homeward  Bound      .... 

E.  B.  S  

211 

Mother  and  Home    .... 

John  Jarvis  Holden    . 

212 

PART  XIII  —  ENCOURAGEMENT,  SISTER  OF  HOPE 

Invited  Guests     

Frances  Ekin  Allison 

215 

"I  Grew  Old  the  Other  Day" 

Timothy  Otis  Paine    . 

215 

To  The  Men  Who  Lose 

Anonymous      .... 

215 

Which  Path  shall  Yours  Be?   . 

Ray  D.  Smith        .      .      . 

216 

Love  and  Hope   

Francis  Brooks 

217 

Opportunity  Talks 

W.  J.  Lampton 

217 

Be  Thou  a  Bird,  My  Soul 

A.G.C  

218 

"Let  Go!"      

W.  A.  Blackwell  .      .      . 

219 

CONTENTS  xxi 

PAGE 

Cherry  Trees  A-Bloom  .      .      .  Wallace  Rice   .....  219 

I  'm  Glad  .......  Anonymous      .....  220 

How  did  You  Die?  ....  Edmund  Vance  Cooke      .      .221 

The  Comforters    .....  Lawrence  Housman    .      .      .221 

God  Bless  You,   Dear,  To-Day  John  Bennett  .....  222 

A  Sigh       .......  Timothy  Otis  Paine    ...  223 

Encouragement     .....  Elizabeth  Phelps  Rounsevell  .  223 

The  Blessing  of  a  Smoke    .      .  Ray  D.  Smith  .....  223 

Refuge        .......  Annie  L.  Muzzey        .      .      .  224 

From  Altruria      .....  Frances  M.  Milne      .      .      .  224 

Be  Contented       .      .      .      .      .  Anonymous     .....  225 

A  Thought  from  Nietszche       .  Charles  James    .....  225 

A  Recipe  for  Sanity    ....  Henry  Rutherford  Elliot    .      .  226 

Four-Leaf  Clovers       ....  Ella  Higginson  .....  226 

Hope       ........  Martha  J.  Hadley   ....  226 

True  Charity    ......  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox     .      .      .  227 

The  Strength  of  Weakness    .      .  M  .  Elizabeth  Grouse     .      .      .  227 

Compensations       .....  Christopher  Bannister        .      .  227 

Look  Up!      .......  John  Jarvis  H  olden      .      .     .  228 


PART    XIV  —  IN  THE  MIDST  OF  LIFE 

L'Envoi  ........  Bliss  Carman     .....  230 

At  the  Top  of  the  Road   .      .      .  Charles  Buxton  Going       .     .  231 

From  the  Japanese      ....  Anonymous        .....  231 

If  We  Only  Knew        ....  Anonymous        .....  232 

Lettice     ........  Michael  Field    ...      .      .  232 

Ballad  of  the  Unsuccessful    .      .  Richard  Burton       ....  233 

A  Cry  for  Conquest    ....  Angela  Morgan        .      .       .  234 

Opportunity    ......  John  James  Ingalls     ...  235 

Poem    ........  John  Davidson        ....  235 

Song      ........  Beatrice  Rosenthal      .      .      .  235 

The  Reward     ......  Ivan  Swift        .....  236 

Songs  of  Souls  that  Failed    .      .  Marion  Couthouy  Smith  .      .  236 

To  be  Old  .......  Helen  Eldred  Storke    ...  237 

To  be  Young   ......  Helen  Eldred  Storke    ...  237 

The  Tree  God  Plants       .      .      .  Anonymous      .....  237 

Some  Time       ......  May  Riley  Smith       ...  238 

The  Purpose  of  Life   ....  Frank  Putnam      ....  239 

Death's  Guerdon  .....  Lizette  Woodward  Reese  .      .  239 

Vi  et  Armis     ......  Andrew  Downing  .      .  240 

Sun  or  Satellite?    .....  Mary  H.  Hull       ....  240 

Sunken  Gold    ......  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton       .      .  241 

Life        ........  Belle  R.  Harrison       .  241 

The  Feast  of  the  Dead        .      .  Charlotte  Becker    ....  241 

To  the  Departed       ....  Anonymous     ..'.'.'.  242 

A  Song      .......  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  .  243 

There  is  a  Music  in  the  March 

„  °f  Stars        ......  Herbert  Bates  .....  244 

When  My  Turn  Comes       .      .  Barrett  Eastman  .  244 

The  Dead  Child        ....  George  Barlow       .  245 

[f  I  Should  Wake     ....  Emily  Huntington  Miller      .  245 

Beyond       .......  Allan  Munier        ....  246 

Beautiful   Death  .....  John  Lancaster  Spaldina  246 

Earth  to  Earth    .....  Michael  Field  247 

Widowhood      ......  M  .  Elizabeth  Grouse         .  247 

The  Sad   Mother        ....  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson  247 

L'Envoi      .......  Willa  Sibert  Gather     .      .  248 

My  baint  .......  Anne  Devoore        .  248 


XX11 


CONTENTS 


Remembrance 

Beneath  the  Wattle  Boughs     . 

Master 

Mirage 

Our  Spiritual  Strivings  . 

The  Judgment-Book        .      .      . 

Light    

All  Souls'  Day 

The  Sheep  and  Lambs  . 

The  Starry  Host        .... 

Brief  Life 

Jesus  Wept 

A  Battle-Cry 

Triolet        .      .  .... 

The   Things  in  the    Children's 

Drawer 

Good-Night 


PAGE 

John  H.  Banner    ....  249 

Frances  Tyrell  Gill     .      .      .  249 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle        .  250 

A.  S.  R 250 

Arthur  Symons     ....  251 
Clarence  Urmy      .      .      .      .251 

M.  Elizabeth  Grouse  ...  251 

Rosamond  Marriott  Watson  252 

Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson     .  252 

John  Lancaster  Spalding       .  253 

Ernest  Dowson      ....  253 

Frances  Brooks      ....  254 

Lee  Shippey    .      .      .      .      .  254 

Winifred  Lucas     ....  255 

Anonymous 255 

M.  A.  Sinclair  256 


PART  XV  — TALES  IN   THE   TELLING 


The  Rose's  Philosophy  . 

Procrustes'  Bed 

Heliotrope 

The  Digger's  Grave 

Forby  Sutherland      .... 

Chiquita:  A  Legend  of  the  West 
ern  Seas 

An  International  Episode    . 

A  Christmas  Camp  on  the  San 
Gabr'el  

The  Men  of  Monomoy 

City  Blood  and  Country  Jay  . 

The  Reverse  of  the  Golden  Shield 

The  Strangers 

Rattlin'  Joe's  Prayer 

An  Incident  of  the  West    . 

Books  of  the  Bible   .... 

The  Garden-Maker  .... 

My  Little  Wife 

The  Assayer's  Story 

Abigail  Becker 

The  Man  in  the  Cab     . 

A  Ballad  of  an  Artist's  Wife 

A  Lesson  of  Mercy  .... 


Anonymous 258 

Beatrice  Hanscom       .      .      .  259 

Harry  Thurston  Peck       .      .  260 

Sarah  Welch 261 

George  Gordon  M'Crae     .      .  262 

Barrett  Eastman   ....  265 

Caroline  Duer        ....  266 

Amelia  Barr 267 

Joe  Cone 269 

Anonymous 270 

Will  M.  Maupin        ...  271 

Nora  Hopper 273 

Capt.  John  Wallace  Crawford  275 

Anonymous 278 

John  Nelson  Davidson     .      .  279 

L.  P.  Morsbach     ....  281 

Anonymous 283 

Anonymous 285 

Amanda  T.  Jones       .      .      .  287 

Nixon  Waterman        .      .      .  292 

John  Davidson      ....  292 

George  Murray      ....  296 


PART  XVI  — THE  POETRY  OF  EVERY  DAY 


Knowledge 

Life's  Common  Things  . 

Waiting 

Every-Day  Heroes    .... 
Preserving-Time         .... 
The  Midnight  Mail  .... 
A  Board  School  Pastoral    . 
The  German  Band   .... 
"I  Never  Knowed" 
When    a    Man's  Out  of  a  Job 
Chrysalids 


Theodosia  Garrison     . 
Anonymous 
Edgar  A.  Post 
Bertrand  Shadwell 
Anonymous 
William  Hurd  Hillyer 
May  Kendall  . 
Earl  Derr  Biggers . 
William  T.  Croasdale 
Sam  Walter  Foss  . 
Anonymous 


298 
299 
299 
300 
301 
301 
302 
303 
304 
305 
306 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Only  a  Factory  Girl 

C.  J.  Buell      .... 

.    .306 

The  American  Fireman 

Christopher  Bannister 

.     307 

One  Witness   

Anonymous      .... 

.     309 

Saturday  Night    
Once  in  a  While        .... 

Mary  Colburne  Veel 
W.  Francis  Chambers 

.     309 
.      310 

PART  XVII  —  WAR, 

PEACE,   AND   HISTORY 

How  We  Burned  the  Philadelphia 

Barrett  Eastman   . 

.     313 

Mother  West        

Arthur  Chapman  .      ... 

.     315 

The  Pioneers  

Herbert  Bates  .... 

.     316 

The    Fight  at  the  San  Jacinto 

John  Williamson  Palmer 

.     317 

Betsy's  Battle  Flag  .... 

Minna  Irving 

.     318 

The  Fighting  Race   .... 

Joseph  /.  C.  Clarke    .      . 

.     319 

The  Kearsarge      

James  Jeffrey  Roche  . 

.     321 

Unreconstructed         .... 

Innes  Randolph    . 

.     322 

Ballad  of  the  Sabre  Cross  and  7 

Irving  Bacheller    . 

.     323 

Strike  the  Blow         .... 

Anonymous 

.     325 

Chickamauga        

Anonymous 

.     326 

The  Rush  of  the  Oregon     . 

Arthur  Guiterman 

.     327 

The  Sailing  of  the  Fleet      . 

Anonymous 

.     329 

The  Song  of  the  Spanish  Main 

John  Bennett 

.     329 

Our  Soldiers'  Song    .... 

David  Graham  Adee   . 

.     330 

Call  to  the  Colors     .      .      .      . 

Arthur  Guiterman 

.     331 

To  the  Modern  Battleship 

Robert  James  . 

.     332 

At  Last      

George  E.  Bowen  . 

.     333 

The  Men  Behind  the  Guns 

John  J.  Rooney     . 

.     333 

The  Man  Who  Cooks  the  Grub 

S.  E.  Riser      .... 

.     334 

The  Yankee  Dude  '11  Do 

S.  E.  Riser 

335 

The  Stalking  of  the  Sea  Wolves 

Charles  W.  Thompson 

.     336 

Porto  Rico      

George  E.  Bowen  . 

.     337 

Bill  Sweeny  of  the  Black  Gang 

James  Barnes 

.     338 

A  Mother  of  '98        .      .      .      . 

Marion  Couthouy  Smith 

.     340 

The  Absent  Boy        . 

Margaret  Sangster 

.     340 

The  Soldier's  Wife    .      .      .      . 

Elliott  Flower  .... 

.     341 

The  Price  We  Pay    .      .      .      . 

J.  H.  Stevens  .... 

.     341 

Returned  from  the  Wars     . 

Anonymous      .... 

.     342 

Jim        

George  V.  Hobart 

.     343 

From  Birth  to  Battlefield   . 

Anonymous     .... 

.     344 

A  War  Echo  

Anonymous      .... 

.     345 

Telling  Them  of  Tampa      . 

Anonymous      .... 

.     345 

Mulvaney  and  Another 

John  A.  Moroso    . 

.     346 

In  de  Mawnin' 

Anonymous 

347 

Figuring  It  All  Up 

Anonymous 

347 

Our  New  Heroes       .... 

Sydney  Reid    .... 

.     348 

The  Man  Who  Does  the  Cheering 

Anonymous      .... 

.     349 

The  Battle  of  Dundee   .      .      . 

Anonymous      .... 

.     351 

The  Soldier's  Song    .      .      .      . 

Herbert  French      .      .      . 

.     353 

Paul  Jones      

William  A.  Phelon     .      . 

.     353 

A  Song  of  Panama 

Alfred  Damon  Runyon     . 

.     354 

Panama      

Amanda  T.  Jones 

.     355 

Our    Twenty-Six    Presidents  in 

Rhyme   

John  Nelson  Davidson 

356 

Impromptu  Lines  on  July  Fourth 

Franklin  P.  Adams    . 

.     358 

Rataplan    

Edward  Cracroft  Lefroy   . 

.     359 

San  Francisco       

John  Vance  Cheney    . 

.     359 

Peace    . 

S.  E.  Riser 

360 

Angel  of  Peace    

Anonymous 

361 

The  Ultimate  North       .      .      . 

Wallace  Rice  .... 

.     362 

XXIV 


CONTENTS 


PART  XVIII  — IN   LIGHTER   VEIN 


A  Banjo  Song 

Golf  and  Life 

The  Chicken;  or,  My  First  Intro 
duction  to  the  Ancient  Game 
of  Golf  

The  Football  Casabianca     . 

Casey  at  the  Bat      .... 

A  Ballad  of  the  Champions     . 

Question  and  Answer     . 

Maud  Muller  A-Wheel  .      .      . 

The  Piker's  Rubaiyat     .      .      . 

A  Sad  Story         

The  New  Stenographer 

A  Thought      .      .      .      .      .      . 

Cargoes 

The  Rough  Rider  to  His  Girl     . 

Troublous  Times       .... 

The  Dance  at  the  Little  Gila 
Ranch 

Angelina 

Lines  to  a  Garden  Hose     . 

Shindig  in  the  Country 

The  Flatter's  Lament    .      . 

The  Breakfast  Food  Family     . 

The  Third  Person     .... 

Evolution 

No  Dyspeptics  Need  Apply 

Good  News  from  Georgia  . 

De  Belle  ob  Ebonville  .      .      . 

Hoch!     Der  Kaiser!        .      . 

An  Epitaph 

Poor  Mother 

What 's  in  a  Name?  .... 

The  Wreck  of  the  Julie  Plante 

The  Fleeting  Visitant     .      .      . 

In  a  Quiet  Neighborhood    . 

If  I  should  Die  To-Night 

In  Defence  of  the  Advertising 
Muse 

My  Rector 

The  Trust  and  the  Trustee      . 

Bill's  in  Trouble       .... 

A  Ballad  of  Modern  Fables     . 

The  Medical  Tyro  Waiting  for 
Patients 

The  Passing  of  Prestige 

Perseverance 

The  Village  Oracle    .... 

Awful  Hazardous 

Charge  of   the   Rough  Writers 

A  Literary  Miss 

Fame 

Discovered 

The  Rhyme  of   the   Kipperling 

Fame  —  Fame  —  Fame        .      . 

An  Eskimelodrama    .... 

Lay  of  Ancient  Rome    . 

To  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavadra 

A  Very  Nice  Pair     .... 


Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 
S.  E.  Riser 


S.  F.  Outwood       .      . 
Wilbur  D.  Nesbit  .     . 
Ernest  Lawrence  Thayer 
Anonymous 
Anonymous     .   '  . 
S.  E.  Riser      .      .      . 
Franklin  P.  Adams    . 
Anonymous     .      . 
Anonymous 

James  Kenneth  Stephen 
John  Masefield 
Anonymous 
Anonymous 


Anonymous 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar     . 

Anonymous 

D.  A.  Ellsworth      .... 

Anonymous 

Bert  Lesion  Taylor 
Edmund  Vance  Cooke 
Harry  Thurston  Peck 

Anonymous 

Anonymous  .... 

Henry  Davis  Middleton 

Rodney  Blake 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick 
William  Wallace  Whitelpck 
Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick 
William  Henry  Drummond  . 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 

Ben  Ring 

Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick 

Anonymous 

Anonymous 

James  Barton  Adams  .  , 
Franklin  P.  Adams  .  .  . 

C.  S.  Eldridge  .... 
David  Stearns  .... 

Anonymous 

Joseph  Lincoln      .... 
Charles  Irvin  Junkin 
Harold  MacGrath        .      .      . 

Oliver  Marble 

Anonymous 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar    . 
Owen  Seaman       .... 
W.  Livingston  Lamed 

Anonymous 

Thomas  Ybarra  .... 
Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick 
Anonymous 


PAGE 

365 


367 
370 
372 
373 
374 
374 
377 
378 
379 
379 
380 
380 
381 

381 

382 
383 
384 
386 
386 
387 
388 
388 
388 
389 
390 
390 
391 
391 
392 
393 
393 
394 

394 
395 
395 
396 
396 

397 
398 
399 
399 
400 
401 
402 
402 
403 
404 
406 
407 
408 
409 
409 


CONTENTS 


XXV 


PAGE 

The  Young  Man  from  Pall  Mall  Anonymous 410 

On  a  Dull  Dog Edward  Cracroft  Lefroy  .      .  410 

Unsatisfied  Yearning       .      .      .  Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick  410 

Reptilian  Anatomy   ....  Anonymous 410 

Don't  You  See? Katherine  Lee  Bates   .      .      .411 

A  Philistine Edward  Cracroft  Lefroy   .      .  411 

A  Song  of  the  Season    .      .      .  Anonymous 412 

The  Book- Worm        .      .      .      .  C.  W.  Pearson      .      .      .      .  413 

Change  Assured         ....  Anonymous 414 

Relaxation Anonymous     .            ...  414 

A  Song  of  Summer  ....  Richard  Kendall  Munkittrick  415 

A  Climatic  Madrigal      .      .      .  Wilbur  D.  Nesbit        .      .      .  416 

•The  Sum  of  Life       ....  Ben  King 417 

A  Question Anonymous 418 

Going  to  Her  Head        .      .      .  Anonymous 418 

Only  Japanese Anonymous 418 

No  Seeking,  No  Losing       .      .  Anonymous 418 


Part  J 
THE  WORLD'S    SINGERS 


THE  MUSIC-MAKERS 

WE  are  the  music-makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams; 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams; 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of  the  world  forever,  it  seems. 

With  wonderful  deathless  ditties 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory ; 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown ; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  an  empire  down. 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  with  our  mirth; 
And  overthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 

ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS 

SECOND   SERIES 


Part  31 
THE  WORLD'S  SINGERS 


TO  A   VIOLIN 

STRANGE  shape,  who  moulded  first  thy  dainty  shell? 

Who  carved  these  melting  curves?     Who  first  did  bring 

Across  thy  latticed  bridge  the  slender  string? 
Who  formed  this  magic  wand,  to  weave  the  spell, 
And  lending  thee  his  own  soul,  bade  thee  tell, 

When  o'er  the  quiv'ring  strings,  he  drew  the  bow, 

Life's  history  of  happiness  and  woe, 
Or  sing  a  psean,  or  a  fun'ral  knell? 

Oh  come,  beloved,  responsive  instrument, 

Across  thy  slender  throat  with  gentle  care 
I'll  stretch  my  heart-strings;  and  be  quite  content 

To  lose  them,  if  with  man  I  can  but  share 
The  springs  of  song,  that  in  my  soul  are  pent, 

To  quench  his  thirst,  and  help  his  load  to  bear. 

BERTHA  F.  GORDON. 

PROPHECY 

WHEN,  formed  by  groping  mind  and  tedious  hand, 

The  airy  palaces  of  man  shall  stand, 
Substantialized,  accomplished;  when  shall  be 

The  builded  vision  of  humanity, 
The  city  of  the  centuries  —  then  know 

Some  prophet  heart  divined  it  long  ago; 
Some  poet  glimpsed  it  where  the  spirit  gleamed; 

It  is  the  city  that  the  dead  have  dreamed. 

LEONORA  PEASE. 

3 


THE    HUMBLER   POETS 
A   NEW  POET 

I  WRITE.     He  sits  beside  my  chair, 
And  scribbles,  too,  in  hushed  delight; 

He  dips  his  pen  in  charmed  air: 
What  is  it  he  pretends  to  write? 

He  toils  and  toils;  the  paper  gives 

No  clue  to  aught  he  thinks.     What  then? 

His  little  heart  is  glad;  he  lives 
The  poems  he  cannot  pen. 

Strange  fancies  throng  that  baby  brain. 

What  grave  sweet  looks!     What  earnest  eyes! 
He  stops  —  reflects  —  and  now  again 

His  unrecording  pen  he  plies. 

It  seems  a  satire  on  myself,  — 

These  dreamy  nothings  scrawled  in  air, 

This  thought,  this  work!     O  tricksy  elf, 
Wouldst  drive  thy  father  to  despair? 

Despair!     Ah,  no;  the  heart,  the  mind 
Persists  in  hoping,  —  schemes  and  strives 

That  there  may  linger  with  our  kind 
Some  memory  of  our  little  lives. 

Beneath  his  rock  i'  the  early  world 

Smiling  the  naked  hunter  lay, 
And  sketched  on  horn  the  spear  he  hurled, 

The  urus  which  he  made  his  prey. 

Like  him  I  strive  in  hope  my  rhymes 

May  keep  my  name  a  little  while,  — 
O  child,  who  knows  how  many  times 

We  two  have  made  the  angels  smile? 

WILLIAM  CANTON. 

A  SONG  ABOUT  SINGING 

O  NIGHTINGALE,  the  poet's  bird, 

A  kinsman  dear  thou  art, 
Who  never  sings  so  well  as  when 

The  rose-thorns  bruise  thy  heart. 

But  since  thy  agony  can  make 

A  listening  world  so  blest, 
Be  sure  it  cares  but  little  for 

Thy  wounded,  bleeding  breast. 

ANNE  REEVE  ALDRICH. 


THE    WORLD'S    SINGERS  { 

MY  WISH 

UNTO  the  world's  great  diadem 
Could  I  but  add  one  simple  gem 

Ere  life  were  spent, 

One  heart-sprung  lay,  whose  softening  chime 
Should  echo  through  the  halls  of  time, 

I  'd  rest  content. 

I  ask  no  part  with  those  who  wrought 
The  mighty  pyramids  of  thought. 

Our  heritage, 

Unshaken  by  the  drifting  sand 
Of  endless  change,  serene  they  stand 

From  age  to  age. 

If  on  the  placid  sea  of  time 
The  zephyr  of  my  simple  rhyme 

Should  ripple  make, 
Which  widening  ever  through  the  years 
Upon  the  distant  misty  shores 

At  last  should  break, 

Then  feeling  that  I  have  not  been 
A  borrower  of  the  dust  in  vain, 

When  life  was  spent, 
And  that  unto  the  crown  of  thought 
This  simple  jewel  I  had  brought, 

I  'd  rest  content. 

WARREN  PEASE. 

THE    PRICE 

A  MAN  lived  fifty  years  —  joy  dashed  with  tears; 

Loved,  toiled;  had  wife  and  child,  and  lost  them;  died; 
And  left  of  all  his  long  life's  work  one  little  song. 

That  lasted  —  nought  beside. 

Like  the  Monk  Felix'  bird,  that  song  was  heard; 

Doubt  prayed,  Faith  soared,  Death  smiled  itself  to  sleep; 
That  song  saved  souls.    You  say — The  man  paid  stiffly?    Nay. 
God  paid  —  and  thought  it  cheap. 

WILLIAM  CANTON. 
ASPIRATION 

Thousands  upon  their  eager  tiptoes  stand 
Straining,  and  almost  reach  the  Muse's  hand. 
A  few  have  touched  it;  never  man  had  power 
To  clasp  and  hold  it  for  a  single  hour. 

C.  E.  D.  PHELPS. 


THE    HUMBLER    POETS 
TO  A   FASHIONABLE  POET 

Is  the  murmur  of  approval,  high  and  higher, 

That  the  winds  of  favor  waft  you  very  sweet? 

Does  your  spirit  know  its  old  heroic  fire 

That  could  scoff  alike  at  failure  or  defeat? 

Is  the  olden  inspiration  in  your  lyre 

Now  that  Fashion  scatters  roses  for  your  feet? 

Are  you  happy,  say,  or  sorry,  since  the  morning 
When,  by  Want  and  wily  Patronage  beset, 

You  began,  with  silken  sophistries  adorning 

Greed's  aggressions,  the  repayment  of  your  debt? 

Was  the  offer  fit  for  seizing  or  for  scorning? 

Can  they  teach  a  living  conscience  to  forget? 

You  are  silent  —  is  their  scorn  allied  to  pity? 

Do  they  give  you  leave  of  labor  now  and  then 

To  invent  a  gilded  song  or  Bacchic  ditty 

In  the  practice  of  a  prostituted  pen? 

Thou  eunuch  of  the  prosperous  and  pretty 

Who  might  have  had  dominion  over  men! 

FRANK  PUTNAM. 

THE  POET'S  PRAYER 

THY  semblant  beauty  creeping  through  the  world, 
I  will  to  sing!     Thou,  Beauty,  who  art  law, 
Religion,  life,  to  me!  —  I  would  withdraw 

Thee  out  the  gaudy  shroud  in  which  thou  'rt  furled, 

And  let  thy  grain  above  the  tide  be  hurled 
To  deck  the  hills  as  that  the  ancients  saw. 
O,  fashion  me  thy  viol  of  grace  and  awe! 

Despair  not  of  the  timber  rough  and  knurled! 

Evangelist  of  this  lone  faith  I'  d  be  — 

To  hold  the  slab  and  with  us  see  men  sign. 

Prophetic  words  or  pictures  more  divine 
May  not  be  theirs  to  give;  but  those  who  see 

And  live  and  house  thy  grace,  hold  with  us  yet, 

And  she  who  beauty  is,  I  '11  not  forget! 

IVAN  SWIFT. 


THE    WORLD'S    SINGERS 
DE  AMICITIIS 

THOUGH  care  and  strife 

Elsewhere  be  rife, 
Upon  my  word  I  do  not  heed  'em; 

In  bed  I  lie 

With  books  hard  by, 
And  with  increasing  zest  I  read  'em. 

Propped  up  in  bed, 

So  much  I  've  read 
Of  musty  tomes  that  I  've  a  headful 

Of  tales  and  rhymes 

Of  ancient  times, 
Which,  wife  declares,  are  "simply  dreadful!" 

They  give  me  joy 

Without  alloy; 
And  is  n't  that  what  books  are  made  for? 

And  yet  —  and  yet  — 

(Ah,  vain  regret!) 
I  would  to  God  they  all  were  paid  for! 

No  festooned  cup 

Filled  foaming  up 
Can  lure  me  elsewhere  to  confound  me; 

Sweeter  than  wine 

This  love  of  mine 
For  these  old  books  I  see  around  me! 

A  plague,  I  say, 

On  maidens  gay; 
I  '11  weave  no  compliments  to  tell  'em! 

Vain  fool  I  were 

Did  I  prefer 
These  dolls  to  these  old  friends  in  vellum! 

At  dead  of  night 

My  chamber  's  bright 
Not  only  with  the  gas  that 's  burning, 

But  with  the  glow 

Of  long  ago,  — 
Of  beauty  back  from  eld  returning. 

Fair  women's  looks 

I  see  in  books, 
I  see  them,  and  I  hear  their  laughter,  — 

Proud,  high-born  maids, 

Unlike  the  jades 
Which  silly  men  go  chasing  after! 


THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Herein  again 

Speak  valiant  men 
Of  all  nativities  and  ages; 

I  hear  and  smile 

With  rapture  while 
I  turn  these  musty,  magic  pages. 

The  sword,  the  lance, 

The  morris  dance, 
The  highland  song,  the  greenwood  ditty, 

Of  these  I  read, 

Or,  when  the  need, 
My  Miller  grinds  me  grist  that 's  gritty! 

When  of  such  stuff 

We  've  had  enough, 
Why,  there  be  other  friends  to  greet  us; 

We  '11  moralize 

In  solemn  wise 
With  Plato  or  with  Epictetus. 

Sneer  as  you  may, 

I  'm  proud  to  say 
That  I  for  one  am  very  grateful 

To  Heaven  that  sends 

These  genial  friends 
To  banish  other  friendships  hateful! 

And  when  I  'm  done, 

I  'd  have  no  son 
Pounce  on  these  treasures  like  a  vulture; 

Nay  give  them  half 

My  epitaph, 
And  let  them  share  in  my  sepulture. 

Then,  when  the  crack 

Of  doom  rolls  back 
The  marble  and  the  earth  that  hide  me, 

I  '11  smuggle  home 

Each  precious  tome, 
Without  a  fear  my  wife  shall  chide  me! 

EUGENE  FIELD. 

MUTATIS  MUTANDIS 

BY  care  and  strife 
The  good  housewife 
Has  breakfast  ready  on  the  table; 
Where  is  her  lord? 


THE   WORLD'S   SINGERS 

Oh,  vice  abhorred  — 
His  reason  feasts  upon  a  fable! 

What  cares  that  sot 

For  coffee  hot 
Or  that  his  little  wife  is  fretting? 

He  's  drunk  with  wine 

Of  books  lang  syne, 
The  breakfast  viands  quite  forgetting. 

She  knows  (dear  soul!) 

The  festive  bowl 
Has  never  been  his  sin  besetting; 

Nor  does  he  roam 

Away  from  home, 
Nor  cause  her  other  vain  regretting. 

So  when  at  night 

His  gas  burns  bright, 
And  (book  in  hand)  he 's  soundly  sleeping, 

She  looks  at  him 

From  distance  dim 
And,  softly  to  his  bedside  creeping, 

She  never  wakes, 

But  gently  takes 
That  little  book  that  is  not  "  paid  for"  — 

Reads  "Leaves  of  Grass"  — 

Turns  out  the  gas, 
And  —  is  n't  that  what  wives  are  made  for? 

When  "crack  of  doom" 

With  thundering  boom 
Calls  forth  this  friend  of  bad  Joe  Miller, 

He  '11  smuggle  home 

Each  precious  tome 
From  Gower  and  Chaucer  down  to  Schiller. 

With  these  for  fuel, 

A  proper  gruel 
Old  Nick  will  brew  for  this  newcomer; 

Then  all  shall  know 

His  tale  of  woe 
Down  where  (to  say  the  least)  it  's  summer. 

MARGARET  VAN  S.  RICE. 

TO  A  BELATED  GENIUS 

AND  some  of  us  arrive  at  dawn  of  day, 

With  bounding  step  and  singing  like  a  lark; 

And  some  of  us  arrive  at  fervid  noon; 
And  some  of  us  arrive  long  after  dark. 

WILLIAM  THEODORE  PETERS. 


10  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY 

HE  wrote  his  soul  into  a  book. 

The  world  refused  to  turn  and  look. 
He  made  his  faith  into  a  rhyme, 

And  still  the  world  could  spare  no  time. 
But  on  the  day  when,  dumb  and  dazed, 

Despair-condemned,  and  blind  and  crazed, 
By  means  most  weird  his  life  he  took, 

Behold,  the  world  brought  out  his  book! 

ANONYMOUS. 

BALLADE  D'AUJOURD'HUI 

(a  doublerefrain) 

BYGONE  troubadours,  grave  and  gay, 

Minstrels  and  jongleurs,  high  and  low, 
Faith,  you  fill  us  with  swift  dismay, 

Dull  old  poets  of  long  ago! 

Worn  and  threadbare  your  fancies  show 
In  the  light  of  our  modern  way,  — 

Who  hath  a  care  for  "  last  year's  snow  "? 
Here  's  to  the  Singer  who  sings  To-day! 

Meek  Griseldas  no  longer  sway; 

Fawn-like  Chloes  —  how  scarce  they  grow! 
Curious  taste  your  rhymes  display, 

Dull  old  poets  of  long  ago! 

Does  Leander  drown  for  his  Hero?  —  No. 
She  'd  pull  him  ashore  without  delay, 

Kate  is  a  match  for  Petruchio,  — 
Here  's  to  the  Singer  who  sings  To-day! 

Kerchiefs  and  zones  are  quite  passes; 

Glycera's  eyeglass  bids  you  glow  — 
Lydia's  gaiter,  chaste  and  gray: 

Dull  old  poets  of  long  ago, 

Julia's  graces  would  bore  one  so! 
Sylvia  's  taken  to  cycling,  —  nay, 

Pegasus  now  is  a  trifle  slow,  — 
Here  's  to  the  Singer  who  sings  To-day! 

Envoi 

Sweet,  fling  scorn  at  them,  row  on  row; 
Dull  old  poets  of  long  ago! 

Seek  you  a  forehead  to  fit  your  bay? 

Here  's  to  the  Singer  who  sings  To-day ! 

GOATES  CHAPMAN. 


part  JJ 
IN    CHILDHOOD'S    KINGDOM 


THOU  canst  not  have  forgotten  all 

That  it  feels  like  to  be  small; 

And  Thou  know'st  I  cannot  pray 

To  Thee  in  my  father's  way  — 

When  Thou  wast  so  little,  say, 

Couldst  Thou  talk  Thy  Father's  way  f  — 

So,  a  little  child,  come  down 

And  hear  a  child's  tongue  like  Thy  own; 

Take  me  by  the  hand  and  walk, 

And  listen  to  my  baby-talk. 

To  Thy  Father  show  my  prayer 

(He  will  look,  Thou  art  so  fair), 

And  say:  "0  Father,  I,  Thy  Son, 

Bring  the  prayer  of  a  little  one." 

And  He  will  smile,  that  children's  tongue 
Has  not  changed  since  Thou  wast  young  ! 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 


Part  3JJ 
IN  CHILDHOOD'S  KINGDOM 


IN  THE  GARDEN 

I  SPIED  beside  the  garden  bed 

A  tiny  lass  of  ours, 
Who  stopped  and  bent  her  sunny  head 

Above  the  red  June  flowers. 

Pushing  the  leaves  and  thorns  apart 

She  singled  out  a  rose, 
And  in  its  inmost  crimson  heart, 

Enraptured,  plunged  her  nose. 

"O  dear,  dear  rose,  come,  tell  me  true  — 

Come,  tell  me  true,"  said  she, 
"If  I  smell  just  as  sweet  to  you 

As  you  smell  sweet  to  me!" 

ERNEST  CROSBY. 

WILLOW  WARE 

ON  Grandmamma's  table  is  waiting  for  me 

A  plate  with  gingerbread  piled, 

Bread  and  milk  and  berries  and  cream, 

And  the  mug  marked  "For  a  Good  Child." 

And  I  eat  my  supper  and  wonder  where 

That  wonderful  land  may  be, 

Where  the  sky  is  white  and  the  earth  is  blue 

That  on  my  plate  I  see. 

Grandma,  you  know  most  everything  — 
Tell  me  a  story  about  it  all: 
Do  the  long-tailed  birds  know  how  to  sing? 
13 


14  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Did  a  Princess  live  in  that  castle  small? 
The  Princess's  hair  in  a  fairy  tale 
Is  generally  gold,  but  this  is  blue; 
How  does  the  boat  go  without  any  sail? 
Tell  me  the  story  —  Grandma,  do. 

So  she  tells  me  the  legend  —  centuries  old, 
Of  the  mandarin,  rich  in  lands  and  gold, 
Of  Sichi  fair  and  Chang  the  good, 
Who  loved  each  other  as  lovers  should; 
How  they  hid  in  the  gardener's  hut  awhile, 
Then  fled  away  to  the  Beautiful  Isle, 
Though  the  cruel  father  pursued  them  there, 
And  would  have  killed  the  helpless  pair; 
But  a  kindly  Power,  by  pity  stirred, 
Changed  each  into  a  beautiful  bird. 

Then  Grandmamma  puts  her  spectacles  on 

And  shows  me  on  the  plate 

The  mandarin's  house,  the  island  home, 

The  boat,  the  bridge,  the  gate; 

Here  is  the  orange  tree  where  they  talked  — 

Here  they  are  running  away  — 

And  over  all  at  the  top  you  see 

The  birds  making  love  alway. 

And  the  odd  little  figures  seem  to  live, 

Strange  fancies  fill  my  head, 

Till  Grandmamma  tells  me  much  too  soon 

It  '&  time  to  go  to  bed. 

But  I  dream  of  a  land  all  blue  and  white  — 

I  see  the  lovers  take  their  flight; 

Over  the  arching  bridge  they  go, 

One  of  the  lover-birds  flies  below. 

From  the  little  house  with  the  turned-up  edges 

Come  tiny  lords  and  ladies  and  pages, 

And  the  bedpost  turns  to  a  willow  tree, 

And  I  myself  seem  at  last  to  be 

An  azure  lassie  wandering  through 

That  beautiful,  queer,  little  land  of  blue. 

ANONYMOUS. 

WILLIE'S  RECITATION 

To  DO  what  you  can 
As  well  as  you  can, 
Is  a  mighty  good  plan 
For  'most  any  man. 


IN   CHILDHOOD'S   KINGDOM  15 

To  work  all  the  day, 
To  work  every  day, 
Is  the  only  sure  way 
Of  getting  your  pay. 

If  I  work  all  the  day 
And  give  up  my  play, 
I  surely  shall  climb 
To  fortune  some  time. 

On  that  distant  day 
I  '11  not  want  to  play; 
I  '11  only  keep  climb 
ing  all  of  the  time. 

When  fortune  is  ripe 
I  '11  reap  what  I  Ve  sown: 
A  column  of  type 
And  another  of  stone. 

ANONYMOUS. 

GRANNY'S  LITTLE  FLOCK 

THE  lamp  's  dim,  the  fire  's  low, 

And  from  the  fickle  flame 
Shadows  dancing  to  and  fro 

All  play  a  merry  game. 
Grandma  sits  a-rocking, 
Her  little  flock  is  near, 
While  her  needles  weave  a  stocking 
To  the  music  of  the  chair: 
Click,  click,  click, 
Rock,  rock,  rock, 
While  Grandma  tells  a  pretty  tale 
To  her  little  flock. 

The  fire's  flame  has  settled  down, 

No  more  the  shadows  creep; 
All  within  is  growing  brown, 

The  little  flock  's  asleep. 
Grandma  still  is  sitting, 

There  's  music  in  the  air, 
One  half  from  the  knitting 
And  the  other  from  the  chair. 
Click,  click,  click, 
Rock,  rock,  rock, 

When  Grandma  tells  a  pretty  tale, 
To  her  sleepy  flock. 

CHARLES  J.  HANFORD. 


16  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

CHILDREN 

\ 

The  Girl-Child 

GIVE  her  a  flower  to  keep  and  hold, 

A  waxen  doll  in  a  silken  gown, 
A  chain  of  coral  with  clasp  of  gold, 

A  tiny  kitten  as  soft  as  down; 
And  sing,  with  your  lips  against  her  cheek, 

Love's  dear  lullaby,  whispering, 
Till  sleep  comes  over  her  eyelids  meek, 

Sing  for  the  girl-child  —  mother,  sing! 

The  Boy-Child 

Show  him  the  bird  in  its  daring  flight 

To  the  cloud's  brown  edge.     Teach  him  to  know 
The  flag  that  spreads  to  winds'  wild  night  — 

Sweep  of  the  rain,  and  whirl  of  the  snow  — 
Laugh  with  him,  run  with  him,  romp  and  leap, 

Give  him  his  will  of  the  noisy  day  — 
But,  when  you  pause  at  the  gate  of  sleep, 

Oh,  pray  for  the  boy-child  —  mother,  pray! 

MADELINE  BRIDGES. 

OUR  LITTLE  DAUGHTER 

OUR  merry  little  daughter 

Was  climbing  out  of  bed  — 
"Don't  you  think  that  I  'm  a  good  girl?" 

Our  little  daughter  said, 
"For  all  day  long  this  lovely  day, 

And  all  day  long  to-morrow, 
I  have  n't  done  a  single  thing 

To  give  my  mother  sorrow!" 

ANONYMOUS. 

MAXIMA   REVERENTIA 

QUENCH  not  the  children's  joy! 

Too  soon  these  cavernous  damps 

Will  dim  their  fairy  lamps, 
Too  soon  the  haloes  fall  from  girl  and  boy, 

That  crown  their  brows  so  innocently  bright; 

Too  soon  the  garlands  white 
Of  all  their  inconsiderate  employ 

Take  sad  infection  from  surrounding  night. 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S    KINGDOM  17 

Too  soon  will  life's  amazement 

Encounter  their  advance, 

And  dubious  circumstance 
Make  proof  of  their  appraisement 

Of  charity  and  judgment,  truth  and  gain! 
Too  soon  anxiety's  abhorrent  shapes 

Will  spread  like  vapor  o'er  the  splendid  plain, 
And  all  its  promise  of  unblemished  grapes; 

The  beckoning  harvest-fields  will  suffer  blight; 

And  even  the  sunlit  mountain's  high  domain 

The  mist  will  stain 

Blurring  its  aspect  of  celestial  light. 

Dim  not  the  eyes  of  youth 

With  shadowed  sorrow  and  the  ghosts  of  ruth; 

Soon  when  the  tracks  are  tangled, 

And  all  emotion  jangled, 
Will  fade  their  blessed  vision  of  the  truth; 

Till  then  let  sin  and  suffering  keep  aloof; 
But  come,  unfeigned  delight, 

With  music  heralded,  with  blossom  spangled! 

Cordial  the  heart  with  courage  for  the  proof! 
Feed  the  fresh  mind  with  mirth,  the  nurse  of  might! 
Far  be  the  horrid  sight 

Of  lacerated  souls  and  spirits  mangled! 

Young  souls  should  laugh  before  they  laugh  in  vain; 
First  let  them  learn  of  earth 
The  mysteries  of  mirth, 
Before  they  learn  the  mysteries  of  pain; 

First  let  them  be  enriched  with  dance  and  song, 
That  make  men  strong 
To  face  dull  labor  and  endure  the  strain 

Of  disappointed  faith  and  fortune's  wrong ! 

Not  hermit  hearts,  that  love  alone  to  dwell 
In  secret  cell, 

But  happy  hearts,  that  like  a  hive  of  bees 
Hum,  thick  with  busy  hopes, 

Nerve  the  weak  arms  and  knit  the  feeble  knees, 
Winning  from  sunny  slopes 

Of  mountains,  from  the  summer  woods  and  leas, 

What  sadness  spends,  gazing  on  wintry  seas. 

Quench  not  the  children's  joy! 
Let  no  lugubrious  fantasy  or  tale 
Their  heart  assail! 

No  morbid  mirror  flout  their  guileless  faces 
With  hint  of  lurking  furrows  and  grimaces! 


18  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Though  greed  and  shame  hereafter  may  destroy 
The  sensitive  play 

Of  mobile  muscle,  and  the  unconscious  graces 
That  soon  with  introspection  pass  away,  — 
Though  they  are  destined  to  a  sure  decay, 
As  are  the  lilies,  —  yet  their  lucent  clay 

Is  offspring  of  the  sunshine  and  the  skies, 

And  their  immaculate  eyes 

Fade  at  the  sight  of  lethal  miseries. 

With  pulsing  feet  let  children  trip  along 
In  rhythmic  tumult  of  the  dance  and  song, 

With  waving  arms  and  cymbals  held  aloft, 

In  strains  repeated  oft! 
Into  the  movement  of  the  Doric  mode 

Guide  passionate  impulse,  guide 

Life's  eagerness  and  pride! 
Lead  the  desire  that  none  by  lash  or  goad 
Can  drive  along  the  road! 

Give  them  fair  meads  for  pastime,  undistraught 

By  ill-foreboding  thought, 

With  balls  of  flowers  tossed  up  and  hardly  caught, 
And  dells  with  rippling  laughter  overflowed! 

So  let  the  muse  indignant 
Drive  doleful  thrummers  from  her  sacred  mount! 

Her  melodies  benignant 
Let  shepherds  to  the  dancing  children  count! 

Who  with  their  hands  and  feet 

Shall  to  the  cadence  beat, 
Beat  to  the  jocund  pipe  and  gentle  lyre, 

Until  the  anguished  earth 
Listens,  as  sick  men  listen  to  the  choir 

Of  warbling  birds  at  eager  morning's  birth. 

For  where  shall  perfect  happiness  be  found 

If  not  in  careless  children?     Like  the  birds, 
They  pour  through  sullen  woods  a  jocund  sound, 

A  language  not  of  words, 
More  native  to  the  air  than  to  the  ground! 

Who  can  life's  unreplenished  channels  fill, 
If  children  may  not  treasure 
The  untaxed  waters  of  a  bounteous  pleasure? 
If  children  may  not  guard  the  precious  store 

Of  natural  mirth,  and  from  their  vantage  hill 

Launch  many  a  laughing  rill 
Along  the  valley,  where  men  labor  sore 
To  delve  the  golden  ore, 

The  barren  sands  of  vanity  to  till? 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S    KINGDOM  19 

For  of  all  creatures  that  on  earth  should  be 
Devote  to  gaiety, 

Upon  whose  lips  should  oftenest  be  heard 

Laughter's  melodious  bubble, 
Within  whose  eyes  should  rareliest  be  stirred 

The  bitter  pools  of  trouble, 
Children  to  gladness  are  entitled  most! 
For  they  alone  amid  the  weary  host 

Of  warring  men,  that  beat  the  phantomed  air, 
Frenzied,  and  wound  each  other  unaware, 
They  only  dare 
Feast  and  make  merriment.     Ah!  let  them  be! 

Smirch  not  their  white-winged  hours! 
They  are  the  vestal  guardians  of  the  flame 

Of  happiness!     Ah!  sprinkle  not  your  spice,  — 
Self-scorn  and  sacrifice,  — 
Nor  pluck  away  their  garlands  of  sweet  flowers, 
With  desecrating  fingers,  hinting  blame! 

But  watch  with  me  and  listen, 
By  those  enchanted  bowers 
Where  children  dance  with  children,  hand  in  hand; 

Their  eyes  with  gladness  glisten, 
Their  laughter  makes  a  marvel  in  the  land; 
They  imitate  no  code, 
They  use  no  courtier  mode 
Of  pleasing  God;  they  neither  toil  nor  haste 
For  righteousness;  but  dwell  in  Eden  still; 
And  who  would  tempt  their  taintless  lips  to  taste 
The  cheating  fruit  of  conscious  good  and  ill? 


Hail,  fairy  child, 

Not  by  dissimulation  yet  defiled! 
Hail,  frolic  elf, 
Not  yet  instructed  to  dissect  thyself! 

Too  soon  to  be  beguiled 
Into  the  gilded  cage,  —  saint,  devotee, 
I  know  not  what  thou  'It  be,  — 
But  nevermore  the  simple,  fresh,  and  free! 

F.    B.    MONET-COUTTS. 


FATHER  GOOSE 

OLD  Mother  Goose  became  quite  new, 
And  joined  a  woman's  club; 

She  left  poor  Father  Goose  at  home 
To  care  for  Sis  and  Bub. 


20  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

They  called  for  stories  by  the  score, 

And  laughed  and  cried  to  hear 
All  of  the  queer  and  merry  songs, 

That  in  this  book  appear. 

When  Mother  Goose  at  last  returned, 

For  her  there  was  no  use; 
The  goslings  much  preferred  to  hear 

The  tales  of  Father  Goose. 

L.  FRANK  BAUM. 

HAPPINESS 

THIS  world  of  ours  appears  to  me 

The  heaven-land  of  places, 
When  I  can  look  about  and  see 

Wee,  dimpled  baby  faces. 
The  chubby  cheeks  and  clinging  hands, 

That  climb  about  and  over, 
And  bind  my  heart  with  velvet  bands, 

As  dewdrops  woo  the  clover. 

This  world  is  just  a  place  of  rest, 

Where  blossoms  bend  above  me, 
And  spill  their  petals  on  the  breast 

Of  little  hands  that  love  me. 
I  can't  see  anything  but  skies 

That  lean  to  kiss  and  bless  me, 
As  blue  as  are  the  azure  eyes 

That  bend  down  to  caress  me. 

This  world  is  ever  glad  and  gay, 

So  bid  farewell  to  sorrow, 
For  Love  illumes  the  lengthened  way, 

And  brightens  up  the  morrow. 
There  's  happiness  around  me  spread, 

With  wee,  soft  hands  to  greet  me, 
When  Tousled  Curls  and  Golden  Head 

Run  laughing  out  to  meet  me. 

This  world  is  just  a  heaven-spot! 

You  don't  hear  me  complaining,  , 
When  clouds  appear  to  be  my  lot, 

And  it  begins  a-raining; 
Because  the  twinkling  drops  that  glint 

And  glisten  in  the  clover 
Are  just  a  diamond-jewelled  hint 

Of  lush  fields  brimming  over. 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S    KINGDOM  21 

This  world  of  ours  is  fair  and  sweet; 

It  could  n't  well  be  brighter, 
With  love  a-running  out  to  greet, 

And  make  each  heart  the  lighter. 
And  happiness  alone  is  spread 

Around  and  all  about  me, 
With  Tousled  Curls  and  Golden  Head 

To  smile  upon  and  love  me! 

E.  A.  BRININSTOOL. 


THE  DEAD  PUSSY  CAT 

You  's  as  stiff  an'  as  cold  as  a  stone, 

Little  cat! 
Dey  's  done  frowed  out  and  left  you  alone, 

Little  cat! 

I  'se  a-strokin'  you'  fur, 
But  you  don't  never  purr, 
Nor  hump  up  anywhere, 

Little  cat  — 

W'y  is  dat? 
Is  you's  purrin'  and  humpin'  up  done? 

An'  w'y  fer  is  you's  little  foot  tied, 

Little  cat? 
Did  dey  pisen  you's  tummick  inside, 

Little  cat? 

Did  dey  pound  you  wif  bricks, 
Or  wif  big  nasty  sticks, 
Or  abuse  you  wif  kicks, 

Little  cat? 

Tell  me  dat, 
Did  they  holler  w'enever  you  cwied? 

Did  it  hurt  werry  bad  w'en  you  died, 

Little  cat? 
Oh!     W'y  did  n't  you  wun  off  and  hide, 

Little  cat? 

Tink  of  dat! 
I  is  wet  in  my  eyes  — 
'Cause  I  almost  always  cwies 
When  a  pussy  cat  dies, 

Little  cat, 
An'  I 's  awfully  solly  besides! 

Dest  lay  still  dere  down  in  de  sof  gwown', 
Little  cat, 


22  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Wile  I  tucks  de  gween  gwass  all  awoun', 

Little  cat, 

Dey  can't  hurt  you  no  more 
Wen  you  's  tired  an'  so  sore  — 
Dest  sleep  twiet,  you  pore 

Little  cat, 

Wif  a  pat, 
And  forget  all  de  kicks  of  de  town. 

ANONYMOUS. 

TABLE  MANNERS 

WHEN  Teddy  Bears  are  brought  to  table 

They  do  not  clatter  forks  and  knives; 
They  act  as  well  as  they  are  able, 

And  do  so  all  their  lives. 

They  do  not  tip  back  in  their  chairs, 

Or  leave  the  spoon  within  the  cup, 
Or  crook  a  finger  for  fine  airs; 

They  're  very  well  brought  up. 

They  keep  their  mouths  shut  when  they  're  chewing, 

Nor  chew  aloud,  nor  smack  their  lips; 
They  're  quite  refined,  whatever  's  doing  — 

They  drink  not  gulps,  but  sips. 

They  speak  when  they  are  spoken  to; 

Their  elbows  are  not  up,  but  down; 
They  say,  "Yes,  please,"  and  "I  thank  you," 

As  if  they  lived  in  town. 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 

AT  NIGHT 

MAMMA,  at  night,  puts  out  my  light, 

And  leaves  me  in  my  bed; 
Then  dreadful  things  with  peaked  wings, 

Go  sailing  round  my  head. 

I  can  espy  a  horrid  eye 

That  looks  right  through  the  sheet. 

Mamma  tells  me  I  only  see 
The  lamp  upon  the  street. 

She  says  that  guardian  angels  fair, 

With  little  children  stay; 
But,  when  her  step  dies  on  the  stair, 

I  hear  them  go  away. 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S   KINGDOM  23 

So,  if  God  means  to  be  good 

To  little  children  in  the  night, 
I  wish  He  'd  leave  —  of  course  He  could  — 
My  own  mamma  —  and  light. 

MARY  BALDWIN. 
EDELWEISS 

CHILD  of  the  snowdrift  and  the  storm! 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
Type  of  the  gentle  and  the  pure, 

My  tribute  is  to  thee. 

By  mountain  crag  and  glacier's  edge, 

Thy  presence  seems  to  bring 
To  those  who  toil  along  the  steeps 

The  promise  of  the  spring. 

Thus,  too,  thou  earnest,  little  one, 

Amid  the  winter's  gloom, 
And  then,  beyond,  the  promise  dwelt, 

Of  bud  and  leaf  and  bloom. 

Fair  as  the  blossom  of  the  Alps, 

By  weary  pilgrims  seen, 
Sweeter  than  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 

Is  baby  Madeleine. 

WARREN  PEASE. 

TO  A   MAID  OF  THIRTEEN 

How  blithe  you  are,  and  tall, 

And  oh,  so  good  to  see! 
How  eager  with  the  ball 

And  for  its  mastery! 

You  rise,  a  laughing  joy, 

Intent  that  all  the  day 
No  rougher  youngling  boy 

A  better  game  shall  play. 

At  tennis  how  you  run  — 

The  net  is  nought  to  leap! 
On  your  flushed  cheek  the  sun, 

Your  eyes  brown-bright  from  sleep! 

At  golf  how  free  your  arm; 

The  waves  know  its  caress. 
Grief  takes  a  quick  alarm 

At  your  sweet  sprightliness! 


24  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Your  crown  the  mightiest  queen 
Must  envy,  laughing  maid: 

Who  would  not  be  thirteen, 
So  tall,  and  unafraid! 

CHRISTOPHER  BANNISTER. 


LAUS  INFANTIUM 

IN  praise  of  little  children  I  will  say 

God  first  made  man,  then  found  a  better  way 

For  woman,  but  his  third  way  was  the  best. 

Of  all  created  things,  the  loveliest 

And  most  divine  are  children.     Nothing  here 

Can  be  to  us  more  gracious  or  more  dear. 

And  though,  when  God  saw  all  His  works  were  good, 

There  was  no  rosy  flower  of  babyhood, 

'T  was  said  of  children  in  a  later  day 

That  none  could  enter  Heaven  save  such  as  they. 

The  earth,  which  feels  the  flowering  of  a  thorn, 
Was  glad,  O  little  child,  when  you  were  born; 
The  earth,  which  thrills  when  skylarks  scale  the  blue, 
Soared  up  itself  to  God's  own  Heaven  in  you; 

And  Heaven,  which  loves  to  lean  down  and  to  glass 
Its  beauty  in  each  dewdrop  on  the  grass,  — 
Heaven  laughed  to  find  your  face  so  pure  and  fair, 
And  left,  O  little  child,  its  reflex  there. 

WILLIAM  CANTON- 

POPPY-LAND  EXPRESS 

THE  first  train  starts  at  6  P.M. 

For  the  land  where  the  Poppy  grows; 
The  mother,  dear,  is  the  engineer, 

And  the  passenger  laughs  and  crows. 

The  palace-car  is  the  mother's  arms, 

The  whistle  a  low,  sweet  strain, 
The  passenger  winks  and  nods  and  blinks, 

And  goes  to  sleep  in  the  train. 

At  8  P.M.  the  next  train  starts 

For  the  Poppy-land  afar; 
The  summons  clear  falls  on  the  ear, 

"All  aboard  for  the  sleeping-car." 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S    KINGDOM  25 

"  But  what  is  the  fare  to  Poppy -land? 

I  hope  it  is  not  dear." 
The  fare  is  this  —  a  hug  and  a  kiss, 

And  'tis  paid  to  the  engineer. 

So  I  asked  of  Him  who  children  took 

On  his  knees  in  kindness  great, 
"Take  charge,  I  pray,  of  the  train  each  day 

That  leaves  between  6  and  8. 

"Keep  watch  o'er  the  passengers,"  thus  I  pray, 

"For  to  me  they  are  very  dear; 
And  special  ward,  O  gracious  Lord! 

O'er  the  gentle  engineer." 

EDGAR  W.  ABBOT. 


CAPTAIN  BING 

CAPTAIN  BING  was  a  pirate  king 

And  sailed  the  broad  seas  o'er; 
On  many  a  lark  he  had  sailed  his  bark 

Where  none  had  sailed  before, 
And  filled  his  hold  so  full  of  gold 

That  it  would  hold  no  more. 

The  sea  was  smooth  and  so,  forsooth, 

They  took  a  bit  of  leisure. 
And  all  the  crew,  good  men  and  true, 

A  hornpipe  danced  for  pleasure, 
And  had  their  fling,  while  Captain  Bing 

Kept  watch  above  the  treasure. 

The  wind  it  blew,  and  all  the  crew 

Were  sorry  that  it  blew  so; 
If  they  were  wrecked  they  might  expect 

To  share  the  fate  of  Crusoe, 
And  ride  the  spars  like  jolly  tars  — 

All  shipwrecked  men  must  do  so. 

The  gale  it  roared,  and  all  on  board 

Began  to  say  their  prayers, 
And  Captain  Bing  commenced  to  sing 

To  drown  his  many  cares; 
But  when  he  found  that  he  was  drowned 

It  took  him  unawares! 

L.  FRANK  BAUM. 


26  ,        THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

A  HORRIBLE  EXAMPLE 

THERE  was  a  man  who  put  on  airs, 
And  said  he  loved  not  Teddy  Bears; 
He  said  they  were  all  folderol, 
And  much  preferred  a  pretty  doll. 

That  night  he  did  not  say  his  prayers  — 
The  room  grew  full  of  Teddy  Bears; 
They  sat  upon  his  neck  and  chest, 
And  would  not  give  him  any  rest. 

He  thought  the  Dolls  would  be  his  friends, 
So  to  them  cries  for  help  he  sends ; 
They  would  not  come,  for  all  he  cried, 
Because  they  were  too  ladified. 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 

THE  TOUCH  OF  CHILDREN'S  HANDS 

OH,  TOUCH  of  children's  hands!     And  whether  ta'en 
Away  from  us  in  dearest  feebleness, 
Or  whether  they  work  out  their  days  of  stress; 

Or  whether,  after  longing  years  of  pain, 

We  follow  them,  if  so  be,  ne'er  again 

Beyond  the  grave  to  know  again  and  bless 
The  baby  fingers  that  with  soft  impress 

Blessed  ours,  unmindful  of  their  sin  and  stain. 

Yet  somewhere,  somehow,  in  this  universe 

We  faintly  call  our  own,  survives  and  stands 
Some  witness  which  forever  must  rehearse 
That  thrill  too  holy  for  the  mortal  curse, 
We've  felt  —  we  feel  —  at  touch  which  e'er  demands 
Eternity  —  oh,  touch  of  children's  hands! 

JOHN  JARVIS  HOLDEN. 

A  REAL  BOY 

THERE  's  a  joy  that  is  a  joy 

In  a  boy  that  is  a  boy  — 

Just  a  romping,  reckless  tyke 

That  the  whole  round  world  must  like; 

Freckled,  awkward,  lank  and  slim, 

Hat  that  's  minus  band  and  brim, 

With  a  trailing  dog,  or  pup, 

That  betimes  will  trip  him  up. 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S   KINGDOM  27 

In  the  morning  out  and  gone 
At  the  bugles  of  the  dawn, 
Finding  wondrous  games  to  play 
In  each  nook  along  the  way, 
Wading  brooks  and  climbing  trees, 
Pestering  the  honeybees 
Till  they  sting  him  in  despair  — 
But  what  does  a  real  boy  care? 

In  at  noon  to  bolt  his  lunch, 
Then  a  run  to  join  the  "bunch"; 
Shouts  and  yells  and  battle-call 
Over  strife  with  bat  and  ball, 
Or  a  make-believe  affray 
With  the  pirates  in  his  play; 
Blisters,  stone-bruises  on  his  heel, 
Scratches  that  his  baths  reveal. 

Crooning  in  a  sing-song  twang, 
Horrifying  by  his  slang, 
Giving  every  one  the  shakes 
By  his  chumminess  with  snakes, 
Naming  with  a  careless  shrug 
Every  beetle,  bird,  and  bug, 
Ruminant  upon  the  grass 
Watching  all  the  clouds  that  pass. 

Coming  home  at  fall  of  night, 
Grimed  and  marred  from  play  and  fight, 
Braggadocio,  weary  —  yes, 
With  a  wondrous  weariness. 
Dreaming  on  with  smiles  and  sighs 
After  sleep  has  closed  his  eyes  — 
There  's  a  joy  that  is  a  joy 
In  a  boy  that  is  a  boy! 

WILBUR  D.  NESBIT. 

CONSOLING  BILLY 

THERE  now,  Billy,  stop  your  crying, 

Tears  won't  bring  Spot  back  to  you; 
I  don't  blame  you,  dear,  for  sighing, 

Mamma  's  feeling  sorry,  too. 
Oh,  I  know  your  heart 's  'most  breaking, 

But  the  eight,  when  Billy  cries, 
Starts  his  mamma's  heart  to  aching; 

There  now,  honey,  dry  your  eyes. 


28  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Spot  was  such  a  dear  old  fellow, 

And  a  doggish  heart  true  blue 
Beat  'neath  that  rough  old  coat  of  yellow, 

With  a  love,  dear,  all  for  you. 
Yes,  I  know  you  '11  miss  him  badly, 

But,  son,  don't  take  it  so  hard; 
We  '11  get  you  a  new  dog,  gladly, 

If  you  want  one  for  your  "pard." 

All  through  life  you  '11  meet  with  sorrow  — 

Sorrow  that  you  '11  have  to  bear, 
But  the  sun  will  shine  to-morrow, 

And  again  all  will  be  fair. 
There  now,  Billy,  stop  your  crying, 

Dry  your  tears  and  try  to  smile; 
Old  Spot 's  gone  —  there  's  no  use  sighing, 

You  '11  forget  him  after  a  while. 

EVA  STEEL. 

QUEEN  OF  HER  HEART 

THE  little  rag  doll  is  queen, 

Her  realm  is  a  maiden's  heart, 
And  there  she  will  reign  serene, 

And  play  her  important  part. 
A  bundle  of  rags  is  she, 

With  collar  of  scraggly  fur; 
She  's  only  a  doll  to  me, 

But  more  than  a  doll  to  her. 

A  doll  that  I  thought  a  prize 

I  gave  to  the  little  maid, 
That  opened  and  shut  its  eyes, 

And  beauty  of  face  displayed; 
But  somehow  it  seemed  to  me 

She  never  received  the  care 
I  daily  and  hourly  see 

Bestowed  on  a  doll  less  fair. 

The  doll  that  can  really  talk, 

The  doll  in  the  silken  dress, 
The  doll  that  is  made  to  walk 

Lies  lonely  in  some  recess; 
Forgotten  and  pushed  aside, 

It  lies  in  the  dust  apart, 
While  that  of  the  rags,  in  pride, 

Is  held  to  the  maiden's  heart. 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S    KINGDOM  29 

The  doll  is  a  doll  to  me, 

A  bundle  of  rags  and  fur, 
And  yet  I  am  quick  to  see 

It's  more  than  a  doll  to  her; 
And  so  it  maintains  its  place, 

Unrivalled  it  holds  its  own; 
In  rags  and  a  painted  face 

It  stands  in  her  heart  alone. 

ELLIOTT  FLOWER. 

BOYS  AND  GIRLS 

"I'M  awful  glad  I'm  not  a  girl," 

Said  John, 
"To  wear  a  skirt  and  shake  my  curls, 

And  tie  pink  ribbons  on." 

"I'm  awful  glad  I  am  a  boy," 

Said  John, 
"To  play  baseball,  be  sensible, 

And  have  a  gun." 

"Pshaw,  I  don't  care!"  Belinda  said, 

"Maybe  I'll  wed  an  earl! 
Besides,  it's  much  more  ladylike 

To  be  a  girl." 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON. 

PUT   TO  SLEEP 

BACK  and  forth  in  a  rocker, 

Lost  in  reverie  deep, 
The  mother  rocked  while  trying 

To  sing  the  baby  to  sleep. 

The  baby  began  a-crowing, 

For  silent  he  could  n't  keep, 
And  after  a  while  the  baby 

Had  crowed  his  mother  to  sleep. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 

A  SWEET-EYED  CHILD 

A  SWEET-EYED  child 

Looked  down  and  smiled, 
As  to  her  breast 
Her  doll  she  pressed, 
Then  raised  her  head 


30  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

And  softly  said: 
"Mamma,  when  you  — 
Before  you  grew 
So  tall  —  wore  frocks 
Above  your  knee 
And  were  like  me 
A  girlie  small  — 
Was  I  your  doll?" 

AGNES  LEE. 

MY  LITTLE  DEAR 

MY  little  dear,  so  fast  asleep, 

Whose  arms  about  me  cling, 
What  kisses  shall  she  have  to  keep 

While  she  is  slumbering! 

Upon  her  golden  baby-hair 

The  golden  dreams  I'll  kiss 
Which  Life  spread,  through  my  morning  fair, 

And  I  have  saved,  for  this. 

Upon  her  baby  eyes  I  '11  press 

The  kiss  Love  gave  to  me, 
When  his  great  joy  and  loveliness 

Made  all  things  fair  to  see. 

And  on  her  lips,  with  smiles  astir, 

Ah  me,  what  prayer  of  old 
May  now  be  kissed  to  comfort  her, 

Should  Love  or  Life  grow  cold  ? 

DOLLIE  RADFORD. 

TO  A   CHILD 

THE  years  stretch  far  above  thee, 

Thy  past  is  but  a  day; 
Fair  skies  of  Hope  spread  o'er  thee, 

Love  watches  by  the  way. 

As  closely  now  I  hold  thee, 

Safe  in  father's  arms, 
So  may  my  prayers  enfold  thee 

Ever  through  life's  alarms. 

The  tasks  of  duty  call  thee,  — 
Youth  has  not  long  to  dream; 

In  whatsoe'er  befall  thee 
Be  thou  the  man  thou  seem. 


IN    CHILDHOOD'S    KINGDOM  31 

Hypocrisy  will  try  thee 

With  promises  that  shine, 
But  keep  thy  honor  by  thee 

And  happiness  is  thine. 

The  gauds  of  life  may  pass  thee 

And  lowly  be  thy  lot: 
The  pen  of  Time  may  class  thee 

With  mortals  soon  forgot; 

Grim  toil  may  long  enslave  thee 

Ere  Nature  claims  her  debt, 
But  He,  thy  God,  who  gave  thee 

His  work  will  not  forget. 

FRANK  PUTNAM. 

A  MORTIFYING  MISTAKE 

I  STUDIED  my  tables  over  and  over,  and  backward  and  forward 

too; 
But  I  could  n't  remember  six  times  nine,  and  I  did  n't  know  what 

to  do, 
Till  sister  told  me  to  play  with  my  doll,  and  not  to  bother  mv 

head; 
"If  you  call  her  'Fifty-four'  for  a  while,  you  '11  learn  it  by  heart," 

she  said. 

So  I  took  my  favorite  Mary  Ann  —  though  I  thought  't  was  a 

dreadful  shame 
To  give  such  a  perfectly  lovely  child   such  a  perfectly  horrid 

name  — 
And  I  called  her  my  dear  little  "Fifty-four"  a  hundred  times 

till  I  knew 
The  answer  of  six  times  nine  as  well  as  the  answer  of  two  times 

two. 

Next  day  Elizabeth  Wigglesworth,  who  always  acts  so  proud 
Said  "Six  times  nine  is  fifty-two,"  and  I  nearly  laughed  aloud! 
But  I  wished  I  hadn't  when  teacher  said,  "Now,  Dorothy  tell 

if  you  can." 
For  I  thought  of  my  doll  and  — sakes    alive!  —  I  answered 

"Mary  Ann!" 

ANNA  M.  PRATT. 


32  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

A  LITTLE  GIRL  IN  SCHOOL 

A  LITTLE  girl  in  school  — 

How  merry  were  the  days! 
So  simple  every  rule, 

So  easy  to  earn  praise! 

Life  was  a  sunlit  pool, 

The  hours  were  fairy  fays; 
A  little  girl  in  school  — 

How  merry  were  the  days! 

Long  years  of  glory?     Who  '11 
Not  deem  them  waifs  and  strays 

Compared  with  life  all  cool, 
And  void  of  new  dismays; 

A  little  girl  in  school  — 
How  merry  were  the  days! 

FRANCES  VIOLA  HOLDEN. 

THE  DAYS  OF  SUN 

CHILDHOOD'S  days  are  days  of  sun 

And  all  their  paths  are  bright  with  flowers, 
Wherethrough  blithe  footsteps  skip  and  run; 

Long  days  when  morning  's  never  done, 
When  never  a  morning  heaven  lowers, 
Childhood's  days  are  days  of  sun. 

Mirth,  mischief,  and  the  merriest  fun 

Spring  freely  from  those  vernal  bowers 
Wherethrough  blithe  footsteps  skip  and  run; 

Blithe  feet,  their  dancing  just  begun 

In  consciousness  of  growing  powers  — 
Childhood's  days  are  days  of  sun. 

Too  late  we  know  the  sunlight  spun 

Through  those  lost  April  days  of  ours 
Wherethrough  blithe  footsteps  skip  and  run; 

Too  late  we  know  the  storms  they  shun, 

Those  dearly  sweet  and  innocent  hours: 
Childhood's  days  are  days  of  sun 
Wherethrough  blithe  footsteps  skip  and  run! 

ERNEST  L.  VALENTINE. 


Part  3J3 
THE    REALM    OF   FAERY 


OH!  where  do  the  fairies  hide  their  heads 

When  snow  lies  on  the  hills, 
When  frost  has  spoiled  their  mossy  beds, 

And  crystallized  their  rills  f 
Beneath  the  moon  they  cannot  trip 

In  circles  o'er  the  plain; 
And  draughts  of  dew  they  cannot  sip 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

When  they  return  there  will  be  mirth, 

And  music  in  the  air, 
And  fairy  wings  upon  the  earth, 

And  mischief  everywhere. 
The  maids,  to  keep  the  elves  aloof, 

Will  bar  the  doors  in  vain; 
No  keyhole  will  be  fairy-proof, 

When  green  leaves  come  again. 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 


Part  333 
THE  REALM  OF  FAERY 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  DREAMER 

LAST  night  I  dreamed  that  I 

Ruled  over  all  the  land  — 
Held  all  'twixt  earth  and  sky 

In  the  hollow  of  my  hand; 
I  dreamed  I  ruled  the  beasts, 

Likewise  the  birds  in  air  — 
Ships,  mills  and  mines  and  men 

I  governed  everywhere. 

Kings  yielded  to  my  sway, 

And  fawning  princes  came 
To  ask  my  favor,  and 

The  whole  world  knew  my  name; 
My  trains  rushed  o'er  the  plains, 

My  ships  rode  on  the  sea, 
The  toiling  millions  all 

Paid  tribute  unto  me. 

Yet  woe  was  in  my  breast, 

For  in  my  dream,  alas! 
I  sat  and  gazed  upon 

My  image  in  a  glass, 
And  saw  that  o  'er  my  face, 

Once  boyish,  there  had  spread 
The  cold  and  ghastly  look 

Of  one  whose  soul  is  dead. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  WERE-WOLVES 

THEY  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

From  the  even  to  the  dawn; 
And  their  tired  eyes  gleam  and  glistep 

Under  the  north  skies  white  and 
35 


36  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Each  panter  in  the  darkness 
Is  a  daemon-haunted  soul, 

The  shadowy,  phantom  were-wolves, 
Who  circle  round  the  Pole. 

Their  tongues  are  crimson  flaming, 

Their  haunted  blue  eyes  gleam, 
And  they  strain  them  to  the  utmost 

O'er  frozen  lake  and  stream; 
Their  cry  one  note  of  agony, 

That  is  neither  yelp  nor  bark, 
These  panters  of  the  northern  waste, 

Who  hound  them  to  the  dark. 

You  may  hear  their  hurried  breathing, 

You  may  see  their  fleeting  forms, 
At  the  pallid  polar  midnight 

When  the  north  is  gathering  storms; 
When  the  arctic  frosts  are  flaming, 

And  the  ice-fields  thunder  roll; 
These  daemon-haunted  were-wolves, 

Who  circle  round  the  Pole. 

They  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

Across  the  northern  night, 
Filled  with  a  frighted  madness, 

A  horror  of  the  light; 
Forever  and  forever, 

Like  leaves  before  the  wind, 
They  leave  the  wan,  white  gleaming 

Of  the  dawning  far  behind. 

Their  only  peace  is  darkness, 

Their  rest  to  hasten  on, 
Into  the  heart  of  midnight, 

Forever  from  the  dawn. 
Across  the  phantom  ice-floes 

The  eye  of  night  may  mark 
These  horror-haunted  were-wolves 

Who  hound  them  to  the  dark. 

All  through  this  hideous  journey, 

They  are  the  souls  of  men 
Who  in  the  far-dark  ages 

Made  Europe  one  dark  fen. 
They  fled  from  courts  and  convents, 

And  bound  their  mortal  dust 
With  daemon  wolfish  girdles 

Of  human  hate  and  lust. 


THEREALMOFFAERY  37 

These  who  could  have  been  god-like 

Chose,  each  a  loathsome  beast, 
Amid  the  heart's  foul  graveyards, 

On  putrid  thoughts  to  feast; 
But  the  great  God  who  made  them 

Gave  each  a  human  soul, 
And  so  'mid  night  forever 

They  circle  round  the  Pole; 

A  praying  for  the  blackness, 

A  longing  for  the  night, 
For  each  is  doomed  forever 

By  a  horror  of  the  light; 
And  far  in  the  heart  of  midnight, 

Where  their  shadowy  flight  is  hurled, 
They  feel  with  pain  the  dawning 

That  creeps  in  round  the  world. 

Under  the  northern  midnight, 

The  white  glint  ice  upon, 
They  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

With  their  horror  of  the  dawn; 
Forever  and  forever, 

Into  the  night  away 
They  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

Unto  the  judgment  day. 

WILLIAM  WILFRED  CAMPBELL. 

QUATRAINS  OF  IDLENESS 

WHEN  angels  walk  across  the  sky 

On  God-sent  errands,  near  and  far, 
To  keep  their  golden  sandals  dry, 

They  merely  step  from  star  to  star! 

There  is  a  grove  where  every  breeze 

Is  made  of  tender  lovers'  sighs, 
And  kisses  blossom  on  the  trees, 

And  every  leaf  has  loving  eyes. 

The  magic  gardens  of  the  night 

I  know  are  very,  very  far; 
Because  their  dews  are  tears  of  light 

Shed  by  a  mourning  widowed  star. 

If  it  had  been  my  lot  to  be 

A  moon  to  light  the  summer  air, 
I  think  you  would  have  been  the  sea  — 

I  would  have  seen  my  image  there! 


58  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

You  must  have  climbed  the  sky  last  night, 
And  reached  the  moon  and  sat  you  there, 

And  bathed  your  soul  in  silver  light  — 
So  pure  you  look,  so  white  and  fair! 

The  moon  must  be  a  well  profound 
Whence  flow  the  flood  of  limpid  beams 

That,  as  they  spill  upon  the  ground, 
Make  bathing-pools  for  souls  of  dreams! 

If  all  the  stars  should  fall  some  night 

Upon  the  beach  where  I  might  be, 
I'd  build  with  them  a  road  of  light 

For  you  to  walk  across  the  sea! 

The  moon  Is  but  an  icy  jar 

Where  angels  cool  their  wine,  I  think 

In  lieu  of  cups  each  has  his  star 
To  use  in  case  he  has  to  drink. 

EDWIN  LEFEVRE. 

THE  SEEKERS 

FRIENDS  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth,  nor  blest  abode, 
But  the  hope,  the  burning  hope,  and  the  road,  the  lonely  road. 

Not  for  us  are  content,  and  quiet,  and  peace  of  mind, 
For  we  go  seeking  cities  that  we  shall  never  find. 

There  is  no  solace  on  earth  for  us  —  for  such  as  we  — 
Who  search  for  the  hidden  beauty  that  eyes  may  never  see. 

Only  the  road  and  the  dawn,  the  sun,  the  wind,  the  rain, 
And  the  watch-fire  under  stars,  and  sleep,  and  the  road  again. 

We  seek  the  city  of  God,  and  the  haunt  where  beauty  dwells, 
And  we  find  the  noisy  mart  and  the  sound  of  burial  bells. 

Never  the  golden  city,  where  radiant  people  meet, 

But  the  dolorous  town  where  mourners  are  going  about  the  street. 

We  travel  the  dusty  road  till  the  light  of  the  day  is  dim 
And  sunset  shows  us  spires  away  on  the  world  s  rim. 

We  travel  from  dawn  to  dusk,  till  the  day  is  past  and  by, 
Seeking  the  Holy  City  beyond  the  rim  of  the  sky. 

Friends  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth  nor  blest  abode, 
But  the  hope,  the  burning  hope,  and  the  road,  the  lonely  road. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


THE    REALM    OF   FAERY 

THE  RECALL 

AN  ancient  ghost  came  up  the  way 
(The  western  way,  the  windy  way), 
Across  a  world  of  land  and  sea, 
With  greeting  from  afar  to  me: 

"Hast  thou  forgot  the  open  way 
(The  winding  way,  the  wandering  way), 
With  freedom  of  strong  sun  and  rain 
To  clear  the  roving  heart  of  pain? 

"Yet  still  the  long  roads  greet  the  sun, 
And  glad  wayfarers  one  by  one 
Follow  the  gold  day  down  the  West, 
That  once  made  part  of  thy  unrest. 

"Hast  thou  forgot  the  ocean  way 
(The  thunderous  way,  the  wondrous  way), 
The  fierce  enchantment  of  the  sea, 
The  memory,  the  mystery? 

"Yet  still  the  tall  ships  gather  home 
From  tropic  worlds  beyond  the  foam, 
And  still  the  south-bound  steamers  go 
Down  foreign  seas  thou  once  didst  know. 

"Hast  thou  forgot  the  forest  way 

(The  shady  way,  the  silent  way), 

The  thin  blue  camp-smokes  in  the  dawn, 

The  brave,  bright  fires  when  night  came  on? 

"Still  the  free  forest  glooms  and  shines 
With  moonlight  on  the  silvered  pines, 
Although  by  hill  and  lonely  shore 
Their  noiseless  trails  know  thee  no  more." 

So  came  an  ancient  ghost  to  me, 
Idling  beside  a  winter  sea  — 
The  lost  familiar  of  my  breast, 
The  spirit  of  the  old  unrest. 

FRANK  LILLIE  POLLOCK. 

CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR 

I  BUILDED  a  castle  in  the  air, 

A  vast  and  magnificent  pile 
As  the  splendid  temples  of  Karnak  were 

By  the  thirsty  shores  of  the  Nile. 


40  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Its  glittering  towers  emblazoned  the  blue, 

Its  walls  were  of  burnished  gold, 
Its  base  from  the  caverns  of  ocean  grew 

Where  pearls  lay  asleep  in  the  cold. 

Its  windows  were  jewels  whose  dazzling  gleam 
Flashed  back  to  the  sun  and  the  stars, 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  god  in  a  Brahmin's  dream 
Of  the  land  of  the  deodars. 

It  stood  as  the  work  of  a  builder,  alone, 

Whose  wonderful  genius  played 
The  music  of  heaven  in  mortar  and  stone 

With  the  tools  of  his  earthly  trade. 

I  builded  a  castle  in  the  air, 

From  the  base  to  its  turret  crown; 
I  stretched  forth  my  hand  to  touch  it  there, 

And  the  whole  darn  thing  fell  down. 

WILLIAM  J.  LAMPTON. 

THE  FAIRY  THRALL 

ON  gossamer  nights  when  the  moon  is  low, 

And  the  stars  in  the  mist  are  hiding, 
Over  the  hill  where  the  foxgloves  grow 
You  may  see  the  fairies  riding. 
Kling!     Klang!     Kling! 
Their  stirrups  and  bridles  ring, 
And  their  horns  are  loud  and  their  bugles  blow, 
When  the  moon  is  low. 

They  sweep  through  the  night  like  a  whistling  wind, 

They  pass  and  have  left  no  traces; 
But  one  of  them  lingers  far  behind 
The  flight  of  the  fairy  faces. 
She  makes  no  moan, 
She  sorrows  in  the  dark  alone, 
She  wails  for  the  love  of  humankind 
Like  a  whistling  wind. 

"Ah!  why  did  I  roam  where  the  elfins  ride 

Their  glimmering  steps  to  follow? 
They  bore  me  far  from  my  loved  one's  side, 
To  wander  o'er  hill  and  hollow. 
Kling!    Klang!    Kling! 
Their  stirrups  and  bridles  ring, 
But  my  heart  is  cold  in  the  cold  night-tide, 
Where  the  elfins  ride." 

MARY  C.  G.  BYRON. 


THEREALMOFFAERY  41 

A  SAILOR'S  SUMMONS 

A  SOMETHING  white  came  up  last  night, 

It  was  the  mist,  I  wist,  or  rain. 
It  wheeled  about,  flashed  in  and  out, 

And  beckoned  'gainst  the  window-pane. 
It  was  a  bird,  no  doubt,  —  no  doubt, 

And  will  not  come  again. 

And  something  beat  with  slow  repeat, 

And  heavy  swell,  the  old  sea-wall, 
And  shrill  and  clear  and  piercing  sweet, 

I  thought  I  heard  the  boatswain's  call. 
The  sails  were  set  and  yet,  and  yet, 

It  may  have  been  no  boat  at  all. 

But  if  to-night  a  sail  should  leap 

From  out  the  dark  and  driving  rain, 
You  must  not  hold  me  back  nor  weep, 

For  I  must  sail  a  trackless  main, 
To  find  and  have,  to  hold  and  keep, 

What  I  have  sought  so  long  in  vain. 

I  need  no  chart  of  sea  nor  sand, 

Nor  any  blazing  beacon  star. 
My  prow  against  wild  wlives  shall  stand 

Until  it  cuts  the  blessed  bar, 
And  I  run  up  the  shining  strand 

Where  my  lost  youth  and  Mary  are. 

FLA  VIA  ROSSER. 

THE  PHANTOM  LINER 

THE  fog  lay  deep  on  Georges  Bank, 

Rolling  deep  fold  on  fold; 
It  dripped  and  dripped  from  the  rigging  dank, 

And  the  day  sank  dark  and  cold. 

The  watch  stood  close  by  the  reeling  rail 

And  listened  into  the  gloom; 
Was  there  a  sound  save  the  slatting  sail 

And  the  creak  of  the  swaying  boom? 

Out  of  the  dark  the  great  waves  crept 

And  shouldered  darkly  by, 
Till  over  their  tops  a  murmur  crept 

That  was  neither  of  sea  nor  sky. 


42  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

"Is  it  the  churn  of  a  steamer's  screw?" 

"Is  it  a  wind  that  sighs?" 
A  shiver  ran  through  the  listening  crew, 

We  looked  in  each  other's  eyes. 

No  engines  throbbed,  no  whistle  boomed, 

No  foam  curled  from  her  prow, 
But  out  of  the  mist  a  liner  loomed 

Ten  fathom  from  our  bow. 

Ten  fathom  from  our  bow  she  grew, 

No  man  might  speak  or  stir, 
As  she  leapt  from  the  fog  that  softly  drew 

Like  a  shroud  from  over  her. 

We  shut  our  teeth  in  grim  despair, 

Then,  like  one  under  a  spell, 
Right  through  her  as  she  struck  us  fair 

I  saw  the  lift  of  a  swell. 

There  was  never  a  crash  of  splintered  plank, 

No  rush  of  incoming  tide, 
There  was  never  a  tear  in  the  mainsail  dank 

As  her  hull  went  through  our  side. 

Unharmed  we  drifted  down  the  night, 

On  into  the  fog  she  drave, 
And  through  her  as  she  passed  from  sight 

I  saw  the  light  of  a  wave. 

Was  it  some  ship  long  lost  at  sea, 

Whose  wraith  still  sails  the  main? 
Or  the  ghost  of  a  wreck  that  is  yet  to  be 

In  some  wild  hurricane? 

Was  it  a  warning  to  fishing  boats 

Of  what  the  fog  may  hold, 
As  over  their  decks  it  drips  and  floats 

And  swathes  in  its  slinging  fold? 

I  cannot  tell,  I  only  know 

Our  crew  of  eighteen  men 
Saw  the  gray  form  come,  and  saw  it  go 

Into  the  fog  again. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THEREALMOFFAERY  43 

ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT 

0  MOTHER,  mother,  I  swept  the  hearth,  I  set  his  chair  and  the 

white  board  spread, 

1  prayed  for  his  coming  to  our  kind  Lady  when  Death's  sad  doors 

would  let  out  the  dead; 
A  strange  wind  rattled  the  window-pane,  and  down  the  lane  a 

dog  howled  on. 
I  called  his  name  and  the  candle  flame  burnt  dim,  pressed  a 

hand  to  the  door-latch  upon. 
Deelish!  Deelish!  my  woe  forever  that  I  could  not  sever  coward 

flesh  from  fear. 
I  called  his  name  and  the  pale  ghost  came;  but  I  was  afraid  to 

meet  my  dear. 

0  mother,  mother,  in  tears  I  checked  the  sad  hours  past  of  the 

year  that  's  o  'er, 
Till  by  God's  grace  I  might  see  his  face  and  hear  the  sound  of 

his  voice  once  more; 
The  chair  I  set  from  the  cold  and  wet,  he  took  when  he  came 

from  unknown  skies 
Of  the  land  of  the  dead;  on  my  bent  brown  head  I  felt  the 

reproach  of  his  saddened  eyes; 

1  closed  my  lids  on  my  heart's  desire,  crouched  by  the  fire,  my 

voice  was  dumb; 
At  my  clean-swept  hearth  he  had  no  mirth,  and  at  my  table  he 

broke  no  crumb. 
Deelish!  Deelish!  my  woe  forever  that  I  could  not  sever  coward 

flesh  from  fear: 
His  chair  put  aside  when  the  young  cock  cried,  and  I  was  afraid 

to  meet  my  dear. 

DORA  SIGERSON. 

A  LEGEND 

AYE,  an  old  story,  yet  it  might 

Have  truth  in  it  —  who  knows? 
Of  the  heroine's  breaking  down  one  night 

Just  ere  the  curtain  rose. 

And  suddenly,  when  fear  and  doubt 

Had  shaken  every  heart, 
There  stepped  an  unknown  actress  out 

To  take  the  heroine's  part. 

But  oh  the  magic  of  her  face, 

And  oh  the  songs  she  sung, 
And  oh  the  rapture  in  the  place, 

And  oh  the  flowers  they  flung! 


44  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

But  she  never  stooped:  they  lay  all  night 

As  when  she  turned  away 
And  left  them  —  and  the  saddest  light 

Shone  in  her  eyes  of  gray. 

She  gave  a  smile  in  glancing  round, 

And  sighed,  one  fancied,  then  — 
But  never  they  knew  where  she  was  bound, 

Or  saw  her  face  again. 

But  the  old  prompter,  gray  and  frail, 

They  heard  him  murmur  low: 
"It  only  could  be  Meg  Coverdale, 

Died  thirty  years  ago, 

"In  that  old  part  who  took  the  town; 

And  she  was  fair,  as  fair 
As  when  they  shut  the  coffin  down 

On  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair; 

"And  it  was  n't  hard  to  understand 

How  a  lass  as  fair  as  she 
Could  never  rest  in  the  Promised  Land 

Where  none  but  angels  be." 

MAY  KENDALL. 


Part  JP 
YULETIDE   HAPPINESS 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

THE  earth  has  grown  old  with  its  burden  of  care, 

But  at  Christmas  it  always  is  young. 
The  heart  of  the  jewel  burns  lustrous  and  fair 
And  its  soul  full  of  music  breaks  forth  on  the  air 

When  the  song  of  the  angels  is  sung. 

It  is  coming,  old  earth,  it  is  coming  to-night ! 

On  the  snowflakes  which  cover  thy  sod 
The  feet  of  the  Christ  child  fall  gentle  and  white, 
And  the  voice  of  the  Christ  child  tells  out  with  delight 

That  mankind  are  the  children  of  God. 

On  the  sad  and  the  lonely,  the  wretched  and  poor, 

The  voice  of  the  Christ  child  shall  fall, 
And  to  every  blind  wanderer  open  the  door 
Of  a  hope  that  we  dared  not  to  dream  of  before, 

With  a  sunshine  of  welcome  for  all. 

The  feet  of  the  humblest  may  walk  in  the  field 

Where  the  feet  of  the  holiest  have  trod. 
This,  this  is  the  marvel  to  mortals  revealed, 
When  the  silvery  trumpets  of  Christmas  have  pealed, 

That  mankind  are  the  children  of  God. 

PHILLIPS  BROOKS. 


Part  TO 
YULETIDE  HAPPINESS 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE  OF  THE  ANGELS 

HAVE  you  seen  God's  Christmas  tree  in  the  sky, 
With  its  trillions  of  tapers  blazing  high, 
With  its  star-strung  branches  that  reach  so  far  — 
Clear  up  through  the  spaces  where  angels  are? 

Hush  —  listen!     If  you  look  close  with  me 
I  '11  show  you  this  magical  Christmas  tree  — 
This  tree  of  God,  with  its  branches  wide, 
The  flame  for  the  angels  at  Christmastide. 

Oh,  its  great,  wide  branches  are  powdered  white 
With  silver  dust  from  the  stars  at  night  — 
Branches  laden  with  wealth  untold  — 
Wreaths  and  ribbons  and  ropes  of  gold! 

Chain  on  chain  of  luminous  things  — 
Suns  and  satellites  —  moons  and  rings  — 
Hung  high  up  where  the  angels  are  — 
Can  you  trace  the  branches  from  star  to  star? 

And  look  —  hung  low  for  our  mortal  sight, 
A  luminous  globe  of  silver  white! 
And  yonder  —  sheer  in  the  frosty  air  — 
A  dipper  of  diamonds  dazzling  fair! 

Oh,  if  you  and  I  could  look  and  see, 
With  souls  bared  clear  to  its  mystery  — 
This  tree,  with  its  millions  of  jewelled  strands, 
And  its  tapers  lighted  by  cherub  hands  — 

Who  knows  what  marvels  might  beam  and  blaze 
To  thrill  our  souls  with  a  rapt  amaze! 
Who  knows  but  the  branches  might  part  to  view 
With  the  faces  of  angels  shining  through? 

47 


48  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Oh,  the  marvellous  gifts  of  this  tree  divine  — 
Gifts  that  are  yours  —  gifts  that  are  mine  — 
Dropped  by  the  angels  adown  the  sky  — 
From  the  great  wide  branches  so  high  —  so  high! 

There  's  a  gift  of  peace  and  a  gift  of  love, 
And  a  gift  of  faith  from  the  spheres  above; 
There  's  a  gift  of  hope  for  those  who  mourn  — 
Whose  homes  are  blighted,  whose  hearths  are  lorn. 

For  high  up  there  in  God's  love  and  light, 
Who  knows  but  the  ones  we  miss  to-night 
Are  hanging  the  tapers  to  guide  our  eyes 
To  this  tree  of  God  in  Paradise? 

ANGELA  MORGAN. 

TO  AN  OLD  FOGY,  WHO  CONTENDS  THAT  CHRISTMAS 
IS  WORN  OUT 

O  FRANKLY  bald  and  obviously  stout! 

And  so  you  find  that  Christmas  as  a  fete, 
Dispassionately  viewed,  is  getting  out 
Of  date. 

The  studied  festal  air  is  overdone; 

The  humor  of  it  grows  a  little  thin; 
You  fail,  in  fact,  to  gather  where  the  fun 
Comes  in. 

Visions  of  very  heavy  meals  arise 

That  tend  t/o  make  your  organism  shiver; 
Roast  beef  that  irks,  and  pies  that  agonize 
The  liver. 

Those  pies  at  which  you  annually  wince, 

Hearing  the  tale  how  happy  months  will  follow 
Proportioned  to  the  total  mass  of  mince 
You  swallow. 

Visions  of  youth  whose  reverence  is  scant, 

Who  with  the  brutal  nerve  of  boyhood's  prime 
Insist  on  being  taken  to  the  pant 
omime. 

Of  infants,  sitting  up  extremely  late, 

Who  run  you  on  toboggans  down  the  stair, 
Or  make  you  fetch  a  rug  and  simulate 
A  bear. 


YULETIDE   HAPPINESS  49 

This  takes  your  faultless  trousers  at  the  knees, 

The  other  hurts  them  rather  more  behind; 
And  both  affect  a  fracture  in  your  ease 
Of  mind. 

My  good  dyspeptic,  this  will  never  do; 

Your  weary  withers  must  be  sadly  wrung ! 
Yet  once  I  well  believe  that  even  you 
Were  young. 

Time  was  when  you  devoured,  like  other  boys, 

Plum  pudding  sequent  on  a  turkey  hen; 
With  cracker  mottoes  hinting  at  the  joys 
Of  men. 

OWEN  SEAMAN. 

RECURRING   YULETIDE 

How  good  our  every  festival  appears  — 
How  full  of  meaning  as  we  learn  to  know! 
And  as  the  mystery  of  childhood  clears, 
See  the  Christ  stand  in  purifying  glow; 
His  greater  power  and  strength  directing  still 
The  footsteps  and  the  hand,  the  sight,  the  will; 
Each  glad  approach,  regardful  of  the  years, 
Foretells  the  presence  better  understood, 
And  as  the  time  of  understanding  nears, 
Maturer  life  appreciates  the  good 
In  that  great  heart  that  taught  us  how  to  live 
And  to  receive  —  in  knowing  how  to  give. 

JOSEPH  TWYMAN. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  BABE 

ALL  in  the  night  when  sleeping 

I  lay  in  slumber's  chain, 
The  Christmas  Babe  came  weeping 

Outside  my  window-pane. 
The  Christmas  Child  whom  faithless 

Men  turn  from  their  hearthstone  — 
My  dream  was  dumb  and  breathless, 

The  Christmas  Babe  made  moan. 

The  small  hands  beat  impatient 

Upon  my  close-locked  door, 
The  small  hands  that  have  fashioned 

The  world,  the  stars,  and  more. 


50  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

He  heard  no  sound  of  coming, 

His  cries  broke  wild  and  keen, 
The  Christmas  Babe  went  roaming 

For  one  to  take  Him  in. 

A  burning  bush  of  splendor 

Enfolds  the  Christmas  Child, 
Like  some  meek  bird  and  tender, 

In  gold  thorns  undefiled. 
I  listen  long  to  hear  Him 

Come  crying  at  my  door. 
Voices  of  night  I  fear  them, 

And  He  comes  by  no  more. 

KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON. 

HAPPY  CHRISTMASTIDE 

HOLLY  berries  red  and  bright, 
Wealth  of  candles  flickering  light, 

Christmas  in  the  air! 
Childish  faces  all  aglow, 
Outside  sleigh  bells  in  the  snow  — 

Banished  is  dull  care. 

Older  wiseheads  for  the  time 

Join  in  sport  and  song  and  rhyme  — 

Happy  Christmastide ! 
Memory  brings  back  golden  youth, 
Eyes  then  seeing  only  truth 

Ever  at  its  side. 

Joy  to-night  is  crowned  the  queen 
Of  the  festive  Christmas  scene. 

May  her  rule  be  long! 
None  can  claim  a  rebel  heart 
With  her  followers  forms  a  part  — 

Theirs  a  gladsome  song! 

GERTRUDE  ELOISE  BEALER. 

IN  CHRISTMAS  LAND 

IN  the  beams  and  gleams  came  the  Christmas  dreams 

To  the  little  children  there, 
And  hand  in  hand,  to  the  Christmas  land  — 

'Neath  the  Christmas  skies  so  fair, 
They  went  away  on  a  magic  sleigh 

That  tinkled  with  silver  bells, 
Over  the  white  of  the  snow,  one  night, 

Where  the  king  of  the  Christmas  dwells. 


YULETIDE    HAPPINESS  51 

They  saw  him  marshal  his  soldiers  small, 

In  beautiful,  bright  brigades; 
At  the  tap  o'  the  drum  they  saw  them  come 

With  guns  and  glittering  blades. 
The  little  soldiers  were  made  of  tin, 

With  painted  coats  of  red, 
And  they  drilled  away,  with  their  banners  gay, 

By  a  cute  little  captain  led. 

But  alas!  for  the  king  o'  the  Christmas  band 

And  the  march  that  his  soldiers  made! 
For  the  dolls  were  dressed  in  their  very  best  — 

Oh,  the  dolls  were  on  dress  parade! 
And  they  smiled  so  sweet  at  the  soldiers  brave  — 

Each  beautiful,  fairy  doll, 
They  dropped  their  guns  for  a  smile  they  gave, 

And  ran  away  with  them  all! 

But  —  such  is  the  wonder  of  Christmas  land  — 

When  in  the  morning  light 
The  children  woke  from  the  Christmas  dreams, 

There  stood  the  soldiers  bright; 
And  the  dolls  were  smiling  their  sweetest  smiles, 

And  they  said,  "From  our  land  so  true 
The  soldiers  brought  us  a  thousand  miles 

To  the  homes  and  hearts  of  you!" 

ANONYMOUS. 

A    YULETIDE  TALE 

'T  WAS  on  a  merry  Yuletide  night 

An  artless  youth  and  maid 
Watched,  while  beneath  the  mistletoe 

Their  gay  companions  played; 
And  he  looked  quite  disgusted, 

And  she  looked  half  afraid. 

"Such  conduct,"  said  the  artless  youth, 

"Most  shocking  seems  to  me!" 
"But  'neath  the  mistletoe,  perhaps, 

'T  is  different,"  murmured  she. 
The  artless  youth  he  smiled  a  smile; 

"Pray  look  at  this,"  quoth  he. 

It  was  a  sprig  of  mistletoe, 

With  tiny  leaves  of  green; 
Up  rose  that  artless  maiden, 

All  with  a  solemn  mien, 
And  stealthily  she  led  the  youth 

Forth  from  the  shocking  scene. 


52  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

All  silently  she  led  him  forth 

(That  artless  maiden  fair) 
To  the  dim  conservatory, 

'Mid  the  palms  and  orchids  rare; 
Then  took  that  sprig  of  misletoe 

And  put  it  —  in  her  hair. 

ANONYMOUS. 

OLD   TOM   TUSSER'S  ADVICE 

BACK  'mid  the  Baltic's  sleet  and  snow 
When  Viking  days  were  in  their  prime 

They  perceived  the  wisdom,  long  ago, 
Of  Yuletide's  coming  in  winter  time, 
And  said  as  much,  in  prose  and  rhyme; 

And  old  Tom  Tusser's  vision  clear 
Went  further,  in  a  lilting  chime : 

"At  Christmas  play,  and  make  good  cheer, 

For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year." 

Just  when  the  sun  is  cold  and  slow, 

Before  he  begins  his  upward  climb, 
Is  n't  it  wise  to  think  and  know 

Of  Yuletide's  coming  in  winter  time? 

Forgot  the  season's  mirk  and  grime, 
Forgot  the  sleet  and  north  wind's  fear 

For  this  good  advice  to  gay  pastime: 
"At  Christmas  play,  and  make  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year." 

What  do  we  care  for  December's  woe  — 

A  frosty  face  indoors  is  crime  — 
When  we  are  glad,  in  the  log's  bright  glow, 

Of  Yuletide's  coming  in  winter  time. 

There  we  know  nothing  of  ice  and  rime, 
Fully  assured  when,  now  and  here, 

We  repeat,  as  at  school  a  paradigm: 
"At  Christmas  play,  and  make  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year." 

L'Envoi 

O  Father  Christmas,  the  thought 's  sublime 
Of  Yuletide's  coming  in  winter  time; 
But  there  is  another,  quite  as  sincere: 
"At  Christmas  play,  and  make  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year! " 

ERNEST  L.  VALENTINE. 


YULETIDE   HAPPINESS  53 

WHAT  THE  THREE  LITTLE  STOCKINGS  SAID 

'TWAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  and  small  stockings  three 
Were  hung  where  good  Santa  Glaus  surely  would  see; 
Then  three  tired  children  went  early  to  bed 
To  dream  of  his  coming  with  reindeer  and  sled. 

There  was  Bessie,  the  baby,  with  ringlets  of  gold, 
Who  believed  every  word  as  the  story  was  told, 
How  when  all  were  asleep  and  the  house  was  quite  still, 
He  came  down  the  chimney,  the  stockings  to  fill. 

Then  Freddie,  who  hoped  he  would  get  a  new  sled, 
With  shiny  steel  runners  and  top  painted  red; 
And  Winnie,  perplexed  lest  a  stocking  so  small 
Could  not  hold  what  she  wished  for,  a  big  jointed  doll. 

The  night  had  crept  on  to  the  hours  which  are  wee, 
And  the  children  were  sleeping  as  sound  as  could  be, 
When  a  figure  came  crouching,  dark  lantern  in  hand, 
But  surely  not  he  for  whose  visit  they  planned. 

For  not  down  the  chimney  with  presents  came  he, 
But  through  the  front  door  with  a  skeleton  key, 
Stole  softly  upstairs,  and  with  quick,  furtive  glance, 
Straight  into  the  children's  room  blundered  by  chance. 

He  flashed  the  dark  lantern,  its  circular  glow 
Showed  three  tiny  stockings  hung  up  in  a  row; 
He  stood  as  if  dazed  or  transfixed  by  the  sight, 
Then  fled  with  swift  footsteps  back  into  the  night. 

God's  ways  are  mysterious,  when  dealing  with  men, 
And  the  means  ofttimes  used  far  beyond  human  ken; 
So  in  that  quiet  chamber  a  sermon  was  read, 
For  this,  to  the  robber,  the  three  stockings  said: 

"Look  back  on  the  farmhouse  and  hours  filled  with  joy, 
Which  blessed  you  in  childhood,  a  free,  happy  boy; 
Mark  the  long  years  between,  steeped  in  misery  and  crime! 
Will  your  heart  let  you  steal  in  this  glad  Christmas  time? 

"Aye!  think  of  your  mother,  her  head  bowed  in  shame 
For  the  son  she  would  give  up  her  all  to  reclaim, 
Of  your  father,  who  sleeps  'neath  the  old  churchyard  sod, 
And  reflect  that  your  hand  heaped  the  funeral  clod! 


54  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

"Then  your  dear  little  sister,  who  left  all  below, 
While  you  were  an  innocent  child,  does  she  know? 
And  your  brother,  who  answered  his  country's  loud  call, 
In  defence  of  "old  glory,"  so  early  to  fall. 

"You  remember,  on  Christmas  eve,  long,  long  ago, 
How  three  little  stockings  hung,  all  in  a  row, 
While  three  merry  elves  watched  the  huge  back-log  blaze? 
How  much  would  you  give  to  bring  back  those  glad  days?" 

The  children  woke  early,  and  ran,  every  one, 
To  find  good  old  Santa  Glaus'  work  was  well  done; 
They  were  so  glad  he  found  them,  and,  as  for  the  rest, 
Not  a  trace  was  there  left  of  the  unbidden  guest. 

The  bold  robber  was  whelmed  in  the  same  wave  of  love 
That  compassed  the  children  from  heaven  above; 
It  awakened  his  conscience,  on  purpose,  no  doubt, 
That  the  three  little  stockings  might  put  him  to  rout. 

When  peace  and  good-will  came  to  save  men  from  sin, 
Through  the  babe  in  the  manger  in  Bethlehem's  inn, 
Love  circled  the  earth  with  her  chain  strong  and  true, 
And  on  each  merry  Christmas  she  welds  it  anew. 

ALICE  J.  WHITNEY. 

CHRISTMAS  BELLS 

THE  years  come  not  back  that  have  circled  away 

With  the  past  of  the  eastern  land, 
When  he  plucked  the  corn  on  the  Sabbath  day 

And  healed  the  withered  hand; 
But  the  bells  shall  join  in  a  joyous  chime 

For  the  One  who  walked  the  sea, 
And  ring  again  for  the  better  time 

Of  the  Christ  that  is  to  be! 
Then  ring  —  for  earth's  best  promise  dwells 
In  ye,  O  joyous  prophet  bells! 

Ring  out  at  the  meeting  of  night  and  morn 

For  the  dawn  of  a  happier  day! 
Lo,  the  stone  from  our  faith's  great  sepulchre  torn 

The  angels  have  rolled  away! 
And  they  come  to  us  here  in  our  low  abode, 

With  words  like  the  sunrise  gleam  — 
Come  down  and  ascend  by  that  heavenly  road 

That  Jacob  saw  in  his  dream. 
Spirit  of  love,  that  in  music  dwells, 
Open  our  hearts  with  the  Christmas  bells! 


YULETIDE   HAPPINESS  55 

Help  us  to  see  that  the  glad  heart  prays 

As  well  as  the  bended  knees; 
That  there  are  in  our  own  as  in  ancient  days 

The  scribes  and  the  Pharisees; 
That  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration  still 

Looks  down  on  these  Christian  lands, 
And  the  glorified  ones  from  the  holy  hill 

Are  reaching  their  helping  hands. 
These  be  the  words  our  music  tells 
Of  solemn  joy,  O  Christmas  bells! 

ANONYMOUS. 
THE  BEST  TREE 

KARL  lay  on  the  floor  by  the  firelight  bright 

Thinking  about  the  trees. 
"I  love  them  all,"  he  said  to  himself, 

As  he  named  them  over  with  ease; 
"The  chestnut,  ash,  and  oak  so  high, 

The  pine,  with  its  needle  leaves, 
The  spruce  and  cedar  and  hemlock  green, 

And  the  maple  with  its  keys. 

"The  dainty  willow,  with  pussies  gray, 

The  birch  with  bark  so  white, 
The  apple  tree  with  its  blossoms  sweet, 

And  the  fruit  so  red  and  bright. 
But  the  one  I  love  the  best  of  all 

Blooms  and  bears  fruit  together; 
It 's  sure  to  be  filled  at  this  time  of  the  year, 

Whatever  may  be  the  weather. 

"Its  blossoms  are  blue  and  yellow  and  red, 

All  shining  with  silvery  hue. 
There  are  stems  of  golden  and  silver  thread, 

And  candles  that  glisten  like  dew. 
With  such  wonderful  fruit  there  's  none  can  compare; 

From  lowest  to  topmost  bough 
Every  sort  of  a  toy  is  swinging  in  air  — 

Jumping  frogs  and  cats  that  me-ow. 

"There  are  trumpets  and  balls  and  dolls  that  talk, 

And  drums  and  whistles  that  blow, 
And  guns  and  whips  and  horses  that  walk, 

And  books,  and  wagons  that  go. 
There  are  musical  tops  and  boats  that  sail, 

And  puzzles  and  knives  and  games; 
There  are  Noah's  arks  and  also  a  whale, 

And  boxes  and  ribbons  and  reins. 


56  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

"There  's  candy  and  oranges,  skates  and  sleds, 

And  mugs  for  good  little  girls, 
And  cradles  and  clothes  for  dollies'  beds, 

And  dolls  with  hair  in  curls. 
There  are  fans  for  girls  and  tools  for  boys, 

And  handkerchiefs,  rattles,  and  ties, 
And  horns  and  bells  and  suchlike  toys, 

And  tea-sets  and  candy  pies. 

"Oh!  what  a  sight  is  this  wonderful  tree, 

With  its  gifts  that  sparkle  and  hide! 
Other  trees  may  be  good,  but  there  7s  none  for  me 

In  all  the  world  beside 
Like  the  beautiful,  merry  Christmas  tree 

With  its  branches  spreading  wide  — 
The  merry,  beautiful,  sparkling  tree 

That  blossoms  at  Christmastide." 

ANONYMOUS. 

CHRISTMAS  BELLS 

THERE  are  sounds  in  the  sky  when  the  year  grows  old, 

And  the  winds  of  winter  blow  — 
When  night  and  the  moon  are  clear  and  cold, 

And  the  stars  shine  on  the  snow, 
Or  wild  is  the  blast  and  the  bitter  sleet 

That  beats  on  the  window-pane; 
But  blest  on  the  frosty  hills  are  the  feet 

Of  the  Christmas  time  again; 
Chiming  sweet  when  the  night  wind  swells, 
Blest  is  the  sound  of  the  Christmas  bells! 

Dear  are  the  sounds  of  the  Christmas  chimes 

In  the  land  of  ivied  towers, 
And  they  welcome  the  dearest  of  festival  times 

In  this  western  world  of  ours! 
Bring  on  the  holly  and  mistletoe  bough, 

The  English  firelight  falls, 
And  bright  are  the  wreathed  evergreens  now 

That  gladden  our  own  home  walls! 
And  hark!  the  sweet  note  that  tells 
The  welcome  of  the  Christmas  bells! 

The  owl  that  sits  in  the  ivy's  shade, 

Remote  from  the  ruined  tower, 
Shall  start  from  his  drowsy  watch  afraid 

When  the  clock  shall  strike  the  hour. 
And  over  the  fields  in  their  frosty  rhyme 

Cheery  sounds  shall  go, 


YULETIDE    HAPPINESS  57 

And  chimes  shall  answer  unto  chime 

Across  the  moonlit  snow! 
How  sweet  the  lingering  music  dwells  — 
The  music  of  the  Christmas  bells. 

It  fell  not  thus  in  the  East  afar 

Where  the  babe  in  the  manger  lay; 
The  wise  men  followed  their  guiding  star 

To  the  dawn  of  a  milder  day; 
And  the  fig  and  the  sycamore  gathered  green, 

The  palm  tree  of  Deborah  rose; 
'Twas  the  strange  first  Christmas  the  world  had  seen  — 

And  it  came  not  in  storms  and  snows. 
Not  yet  on  Nazareth's  hills  and  dells 
Had  floated  the  sound  of  Christmas  bells. 

The  cedars  of  Lebanon  shook  in  the  blast 

Of  their  own  cold  mountain  air; 
But  nought  o'er  the  wintry  plain  had  passed 

To  tell  that  the  Lord  was  there! 
The  oak  and  the  olive  and  almond  were  still 

In  the  night  now  worn  and  thin; 
No  wind  of  the  winter  time  roared  from  the  hill 

To  waken  the  guests  at  the  inn; 
No  dream  to  them  the  music  tells 
That  is  to  come  from  the  Christmas  bells! 

The  years  that  have  fled  like  the  leaves  on  the  gale 

Since  the  morn  of  the  miracle  birth 
Have  widened  the  fame  of  the  marvellous  tale 

Till  the  tidings  have  filled  the  earth! 
And  so  in  the  chimes  of  the  icy  north, 

And  the  lands  of  the  cane  and  the  palm, 
By  the  Alpine  cotter's  blazing  hearth, 

And  in  tropic  belts  of  calm, 
Men  list  to-night  the  welcome  swells, 
Sweet  and  clear,  of  Christmas  bells. 

They  are  ringing  to-night  through  the  Norway  firs, 

And  across  the  Swedish  fells, 
And  the  Cuban  palm  tree  dreamily  stirs 

To  the  sound  of  those  Christmas  bells! 
They  ring  where  the  Indian  Ganges  rolls 

Its  floods  through  the  rice  fields  wide; 
They  swell  the  far  hymns  of  the  Lapps  and  Poles 

To  the  praise  of  the  Crucified. 
Sweeter  than  the  tones  of  the  ocean's  shells 
Mingle  the  chimes  of  the  Christmas  bells! 

ANONYMOUS. 


58  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

THE  NEW  CHRISTMAS 

IN  the  good  old  days,  in  the  spacious  days,  when  the  Christmas 

feast  began, 
There  was  good  clean  air  between  house  and  house,  and  good 

faith  between  man  and  man; 
To  the  lonely  houses  the  men  came  home,  and  the  doors  were 

strong  and  stout 
To  shut  a  man  and  his  friend  folk  in  and  to  shut  the  foeman 

out. 

They  came  from  the  swirl  of  the  Spanish  sea,  from  the  clash  of 

the  Picard  spear, 
To  eat  once  more  of  English  beef,  to  drink  of  the  English 

beer; 
And  the  hate  of  the  world  lay  light  at  their  backs  as  the  touch 

of  the  falling  snow, 
And  strong  as  ice  were  the  bonds  of  blood  in  the  days  of  long 

ago. 

The  hall  was  hung  with  holly  and  yew  fresh  cut  from  the  woods 

nearby; 
The  long  mince  pies  were  baked  in  the  shape  of  the  cradle  where 

Christ  did  lie; 
And  knee  to  knee,  at  the  rough  hewn  board,  sat  the  men  who 

must  fight  and  roam, 
And  the  men  who  must  tend  the  good  home  stock  and  plough 

the  good  fields  of  home. 

They  drank  their  ale  from  the  mazer  bowl,  they  drank  from  the 

ten-hoop  pot, 
From  the  silver  cup  with  the  rose-wrought  edge  and  the  legend, 

"Forget  me  not;" 
They  drank  to  their  king,  they  drank  to  their  love,  to  their 

kinsmen  far  away 
In  the  lonely  houses  where,  each  with  his  own,  men  feasted  on 

Christmas  Day. 

Now  the  snow  is  trampled  by  million  feet,  the  world  is  lighted 

and  loud, 
And  Christmas  comes  to  a  hurried  host  of  neighborless  men  in 

a  crowd; 
And  round  are  the  mince  pies  sold  in  the  shops,  and  the  holly 

and  yew  tree  bough 
And  the  beef  and  the  beer  and  the  Christmas  cheer  are  brought 

by  the  tradesfolk  now. 


YULETIDE    HAPPINESS  59 

The  wind  no  more  between  house  and  house  blows  free  and 

freezing  and  sweet; 
The  houses  are  numbered  all  in  a  row  and  squeezed  in  a  narrow 

street. 
We  know  not  the  breed  of  our  Christmas  beef  nor  the  brew  of 

our  Christmas  beer, 
Yet  we  sit  round  a  table  and  call  our  toast  —  though  it  come  but 

once  a  year. 

For  the  wind  outside  is  still  the  wind  that  blows  from  the  con 
quered  sea, 

And  the  folks  that  hate  us  are  still  without,  as  God  send  they 
may  always  be; 

And  we  still  make  cheer  in  the  English  home,  and  its  walls  are 
strong  and  stout  — 

The  walls  of  steel  that  keep  England  safe  and  that  keep  the 
nations  out. 

So  here's  to  our  queen  and  here's  to  our  love  and  our  kinsmen 

on  Christmas  day. 
Though  their  lonely  houses  lie  east  and  west  and  southward 

far  away, 
Each  scattered  house  of  our  empire  is  strong  as  the  world  is 

wide, 
To  keep  the  foes  of   the  English  out  and  the  English   safe 

inside. 

So  may  each  of  our  kin  at  Christmas  time  still  keep  good  Christ 
mas  cheer 

And  drink  to  his  brother  far  away,  though  it  be  but  once  a 
year; 

For  strong  as  ice  is  the  bond  of  blood  and  light  is  the  whole 
world's  hate 

As  the  snow  a  man  shakes  from  his  shoulders  as  he  comes  to 
his  own  front  gate. 

E.  NESBIT. 

CHRISTMAS  SHADOWS 

THE  needles  have  dropped  from  her  nerveless  hands, 

As  she  watches  the  dying  embers  glow; 
For  out  from  the  broad  old  chimney-place 

Come  shadows  of  "long  ago"  — 
Shadows  that  carry  her  back  again 

To  the  time  of  her  childhood's  artless  joy; 
Shadows  that  show  her  a  tiny  row 

Of  stockings  awaiting  the  Christmas  toy. 


60  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Shadows  that  show  her  the  faces  loved 

Of  many  a  half-forgotten  friend; 
And  the  Christmas  eve,  as  it  passing  by, 

While  Past  and  Present  in  shadows  blend, 
Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead  now, 

With  only  the  shadows  of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
The  clock  is  ticking  the  moments  on 

While  tears  in  her  aged  eyes  still  shine. 

If  only  out  from  the  silent  world, 

The  world  of  shadows  which  mock  her  so, 
One  might  return  to  his  vacant  chair, 

To  sit  with  her  in  the  firelight's  glow! 
If  only  —  was  that  a  white,  white  hand 

That  seemed  to  beckon  her  out  of  the  gloom? 
Or  was  it  the  embers'  last  bright  flash 

That  startled  the  shadows  round  the  room? 


The  Christmas  eve,  it  has  passed  at  length; 

A  glorious  day  from  the  night  is  born; 
The  shadows  are  gone  from  earth  away, 

And  the  bells  are  ringing  for  Christmas  morn. 
But,  ah!  by  the  broad  old  chimney-place 

The  angel  of  death  keeps  watch  alone, 
For  straight  to  the  Christ-child's  arms 

A  longing  spirit  hath  gladly  flown. 

ANONYMOUS. 

CHRISTMAS  NEW 

A  STORY  is  told  of  three  wise  men  who  travelled  over  the  plains  — 
In  search  of  a  great  unnameable  bliss 
Such  as  lifts  the  heart  when  the  angels  kiss 

And  the  joy  they  get  for  their  pains. 

These  three  wise  men,  who  travelled  through  faith  by  plain  and 

hill  and  stream, 

Discovered  their  search  by  the  aid  of  a  star 
That  brought  them  together  and  led  them  afar, 

Fulfilling  the  hopes  of  a  dream. 

There  are  oft-told  tales  of  wise  men  who  work  and  discover  and 

preach; 

And  make  themselves  rich,  or  other  men  rich, 
With  chattels  or  money,  it  matters  not  which, 

So  long  as  it  comes  within  reach. 


YULETIDE   HAPPINESS  61 

But  these  are  the  works  the  world  can  learn,  the  works  that  the 
world  doth  well:  — 

No  listening  ear  to  hear  is  made, 

Of  a  something  done  without  parade,  — 
For  the  act  itself  to  tell. 

And  the  greatest  joy,  since  the  one  great  search,  is  no  more 

sought  abroad, 

For  the  joy  is  found  and  daily  reached 
Through  the  word  that  the  founders  daily  preached 

And  practised  with  one  accord. 

So  "peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men,"  goes  out  in  the  thought 

to  give, 

And  the  joy  of  the  givers  clears  the  way 
For  the  generous  wise  to  bless  the  day 
They  can  live,  and  give,  and  live. 

JOSEPH  TWYMAN. 

OLD   YEAR,  GOOD-NIGHT! 

OLD  YEAR,  good-night!     A  faithful  friend 

You  've  been  to  us,  and  Heaven  send 
You  peace,  as  through  the  noisy  night 
You  take  your  long  and  solemn  flight 

Adown  the  path  we  all  descend. 

You  brought  us  merry  hours  to  spend; 
In  gratitude  we  would  forf end 

From  you  the  thought  of  parting-slight : 
Old  Year,  good-night! 

Good-night!  and  when  we,  too,  must  wend 
Our  midnight  way  your  path  to  attend, 
Come,  good  old  Year,  and  bring  a  light 
To  make  our  path  a  little  bright; 
Not  here,  not  now,  let  friendship  end; 
Old  Year,  good-night! 

ALEXANDER  MACLEAN. 


NEW   YEAR,  GOOD-MORNING! 

NEW  YEAR,  good-morning!    Come  and  bring 
Us  days  that  smile  and  days  that  sing 
Out  from  the  drifts  of  swirling  snow 
That  through  the  mirky  midnight  blow 
And  clutch  with  frosty  hands  and  cling. 


62  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Hark!  how  the  joy-bells  chime  and  ring 
Thy  birth,  and  new  hope  set  a-wing. 

With  hands  outstretched  you  come;  and  so 
New  Year,  good-morning! 

New  courage  greets  their  clamoring  — 
The  thought  of  friends,  the  thought  of  spring, 
Of  kindly  solace  for  our  woe, 
Of  happiness  we're  still  to  know; 
We  wait  your  accolade,  O  King! 
New  Year,  good-morning! 

ALEXANDER  MACLEAN. 


THE  GLAD  NEW   YEAR 

THERE  's  coming  a  year  all  mirth  and  joy 

With  a  wealth  of  gladness  in  every  week, 
As  gay  as  a  girl  and  as  blithe  as  a  boy  — 

Maybe  this  is  the  year  we  seek, 

When  a  brightened  eye  and  a  mantling  cheek 
Tell  tales  of  happiness  and  cheer: 

Ho,  young  newcomer,  up  and  speak!  — 
Are  you  that  happy,  glad  New  Year? 

There 's  a  year  all  gold  without  alloy, 

With  never  a  day  that 's  chill  and  bleak, 
With  never  a  storm  to  bring  annoy  — 

Maybe  this  is  the  year  we  seek, 

With  not  one  gale  to  shrill  and  shriek, 
No  rain  to  wet,  no  heat  to  fear, 

No  hail,  no  dust,  no  mud,  no  reek: 
Are  you  that  happy,  glad  New  Year? 

In  that  great  year  no  sweet  shall  cloy, 
Nor  darkling  clouds  our  sky  shall  streak, 

Good  fortune  be  no  longer  coy  — 
Maybe  this  is  the  year  we  seek, 
When  all,  like  stars  on  a  mountain-peak, 

See  Heaven  as  clearer  and  more  near, 
No  hates  to  hoard  nor  wraths  to  wreak: 

Are  you  that  happy,  glad  New  Year? 

L'Envoi 

O  Stranger,  hark  to  our  prayer,  and  eke 

(Maybe  this  is  the  year  we  seek) 
Answer  and  tell  us  the  word  we  'd  hear: 
Are  you  that  happy,  glad  New  Year? 

WILLIAM  SHATTUCK. 


Part  I? 
UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS 


WAIT 

NATURE  alway  is  in  tune 
Nature  alway  hath  a  rune. 
Let  it  be  an  autumn  day; 
Let  it  be  a  day  in  May: 
Nature  alway  hath  a  rune; 
Nature  alway  is  in  tune. 
Let  it  be  in  autumn  late: 
There  is  music  when  we  wait. 
Once  I  waited  very  long; 
But  my  life  became  a  song. 

TIMOTHY  OTIS  PAINE. 


Part  (P 
UNDER  GOD'S  HEAVENS 


THE  FIRST  OF  APRIL 

Now  if  to  be  an  April-fool 

Is  to  delight  in  the  song  of  the  thrush, 
To  long  for  the  swallow  in  air's  blue  hollow, 

And  the  nightingale's  riotous  music-gush, 
And  to  paint  a  vision  of  cities  Elysian 

Out  away  in  the  sunset-flush  — 
Then  I  grasp  my  flagon  and  swear  thereby, 
We  are  April-fools,  my  Love  and  I. 

And  if  to  be  an  April-fool 

Is  to  feel  contempt  for  iron  and  gold, 
For  the  shallow  fame  at  which  most  men  aim  — 

And  to  turn  from  worldlings  cruel  and  cold 
To  God  in  his  splendor,  loving  and  tender, 

And  to  bask  in  his  presence  manifold  — 
Then  by  all  the  stars  in  his  infinite  sky, 
We  are  April-fools,  my  Love  and  I. 

MORTIMER  COLLINS. 

A   VAGABOND  SONG 

IT'S  ho!  for  a  song  as  wild  and  free 
As  the  swash  of  the  waves  in  the  open  sea; 
It's  ho!  for  a  song  as  unconfined 
As  the  hawk  that  sails  in  the  summer  wind; 
A  song  for  a  vagabond's  heart  and  brain, 
Refreshing  and  sweet  as  the  roving  rain 
That  chants  to  the  thirsty  earth, 

Yoho! 
A  song  of  rollicking  mirth, 

Yoho! 

A  song  of  the  grass  and  grain! 
65 


66  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

It  'e  ho !  for  a  vagabond's  life,  say  I, 

A  vagabond  live  and  a  vagabond  die; 

It's  ho!  to  roam  in  the  solitudes 

And  chum  with  the  birds  in  the  vagrom  woods, 

To  sleep  with  flowers,  and  wash  in  dew, 

To  dream  of  a  love  that  is  ever  new,  — 

A  love  that  never  grows  stale, 
Yoho! 

Like  a  cask  of  rum  or  ale, 

Yo  ho! 
A  love  that  is  ever  true. 

It's  ho!  for  a  stretch  of  the  dusty  road, 
Or  here  a  meadow,  or  there  a  lode; 
It's  ho!  to  hear  in  the  early  morn 
The  yellow  allegro  of  tasselled  corn; 
To  sail  in  fancy  the  golden  main 
Where  breezes  billow  the  seas  of  grain, 

And  the  swallow  that  skims  the  tips, 
Yoho! 

Are  richly  cargoed  ships, 

Yoho! 
Outbound  for  the  ports  of  Spain! 

It's  ho!  for  the  smell  of  the  sap  that  swims, 
When  the  maples  sweat  like  an  athlete's  limbs; 
It's  ho!  for  the  joys  that  crowd  the  spring, 
The  brawl  of  brooks,  the  birds  that  sing; 
To  wander  at  will  the  summer  through, 
Indifferent  to  blame,  careless  of  due;  — 
In  winter  the  kiss  that  slips 

Yoho! 
From  a  nut-brown  naiad's  lips, 

Yoho! 
And  the  love  that  lies  in  her  eyes  of  blue! 

JOHN  NORTHERN  HILLIARD. 

NATURE 

SHE  whom  I  loved,  not  human  in  degree, 
And  so  I  deemed  unchanging,  is  no  more 
Worthy  my  trust,  nor  shall  a  thought  restore 

This  wistful  heart  its  love;  and  Time  shall  see 

No  mystic  midnight  draw  her  back  to  me, 
With  whom  my  lovely  sojournings  are  o'er! 
Nay,  of  the  very  light  she  loves  to  pour 

Warm  on  the  world,  my  spirit  would  be  free! 


UNDER   GOD'S    HEAVENS  67 

For  once,  when  she  the  whole  day  long  had  smiled, 
Tuning  her  murmurous  insect  strings,  my  ear 

Caught  the  swift  sob  of  human  anguish  wild; 
When  I  besought  her  aid,  and  drew  her  near, 
Lo,  she  I  dreamed  omnipotent  stood  there 

Blind,  deaf,  and  dumb,  beside  a  moaning  child. 

WINIFRED  LUCAS. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WIND  IN  THE  CLOUD 

ROCK,  rock,  my  hollow  boat! 
Sleepy,  sighing,  swinging  boat ! 
Woven  from  the  spray  of  ocean, 
Swan  or  seamaid  taught  thee  motion! 
Wistfully  earth's  children  muse 
On  thy  blithe  and  wayward  cruise, 
All  too  far  remote! 

Float,  float,  my  cradle  cloud ! 
Moonlit  goes  my  pearly  cloud; 
Tossing  in  the  silvery  spaces, 
Drifting  in  the  dusky  places, 
Smiling  earth-children  see 
How  the  night  enchanteth  thee 
For  thy  voyage  proud. 

Sail,  sail,  my  chiming  shell! 
Murmuring  flies  my  curving  shell, 
Followed  by  the  laughing  star  eyes  — 
Haste!  my  cavern  home  afar  lies! 
Dreamily  earth-children  trace 
'Mong  the  stars  thine  airy  pace, 
Shiver  by  thy  spell. 

ELLEN  ROLFE  VEBLEN. 

STRAYED 

SUNBURNED  dryad  of  the  lanes, 

In  the  city  street  you  stare, 
Holding  pensively  the  reins 
Of  your  rustic  team,  their  manes 

Tawny  as  your  breeze-blown  hair  — 
Nut-brown  hair  with  sunny  stains. 

Far  your  thoughts  are  from  this  shock, 

Far  from  all  this  smoke  and  din, 
To  your  woolly  bleating  flock, 


68  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

To  that  nook  where,  doffed  your  frock, 

You  do  ripple  to  your  chin 
Near  the  bubbled,  gurgling  rock. 

There  beneath  the  beech  you  dream, 

Lie  upon  the  grass  so  cool, 
Watch  the  honest,  faithful  team, 
Standing  mid-leg  in  the  stream, 

Lift  their  noses  from  the  pool, 
Where  the  sky  and  shallows  gleam. 

There  the  sounds  of  evening  come 
As  the  hushing  world  grows  dark; 

Night- jars  croak,  and  like  a  drum, 

Heard  afar,  the  beetles  hum; 
Fireflies  bear  their  fancy  spark 

Till  the  night  is  deeply  dumb. 

Dryad!  brown  as  forest  leaves, 
Fragrant  is  your  loaded  car, 
Melons  covered  o  'er  with  sheaves. 
Buyers  crowd;  but  your  heart  grieves 
For  the  glades  where  cow-bells  are, 
For  the  swallows  in  the  eaves. 

C.  E.  S.  WOOD. 
THE  ORCHARD 

O  PLEASANT  orchard,  emerald  leaves 
And  shining  fruit  the  summer  weaves 
Into  a  jewel  of  design 
Finer  than  man  will  e'er  refine; 
But  not  until  the  springtime  shows 
Her  beauty  in  the  lovely  blows 
Of  pear  and  apple,  peach  and  cherry, 
To  prove  the  world  at  last  is  merry. 

JOHN  JARVIS  HOLDEN. 

A   GYPSY  SONG 

CAN  tute  rakker  Romany? 

Then,  hey!  for  the  fields  and  the  forests  green 
Lawyer  or  banker  or  dominie, 

It  does  not  matter  what  you  have  been. 

Rye,  larishan!    A  greeting  fair 

To  all  that  live  beneath  the  sun; 
To  men,  to  birds,  to  stag,  to  hare, 

To  all  the  things  that  creep  or  run. 


UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS  69 

Ah,  I  am  in  a  gypsy  mood, 

That  comes  from  days  of  long  ago! 
A  subtle  something  in  my  blood, 

I  cannot  name,  but  only  know. 

Rye,  larishan!     I  may  not  give 

You  formal  greeting  on  a  day  like  this; 
When  all  the  things  that  move  or  live 

Thrill  with  the  rapture  of  the  spring  sun's  kiss. 

The  scent  of  field  and  upturned  sod; 

The  gleam  and  flash  of  the  blue  jay's  wing; 
The  shimmer  of  leaves  as  they  bend  and  nod; 

The  perfume  the  hedge  rows  glad  outfling. 

These  beckon  me,  and  I  will  not  stay 

Here  in  the  noisy  man-cursed  town. 
I  am  off  to  the  road,  to  the  scents  of  May, 

To  my  old  sweetheart  in  her  springtime  gown. 

ANONYMOUS. 

SWISS  MOUNTAINS  BY  NIGHT 

YE  lonely  peaks,  with  brows  of  ice! 

Ye  lonely  peaks,  with  breasts  of  snow! 

Like  nuns  remote  from  worlds  below, 
Pale  with  the  pain  of  sacrifice! 

Like  novice  clinging  in  a  swoon 

Repentant  of  renounced  love, 

Lies  at  your  feet  the  lake;  above 
Leans  forth  the  white  disdainful  moon! 

F.   B.    MONEY-COUTTS. 

IRIS 

THOU  knowest  not  the  parching 

Of  summer's  cruel  drought; 
Thou  seest  not  the  marching 

Of  snows  in  winter  rout; 
But  thine  the  emerald  sod  is, 

And  flowery  cups  that  brim, 
O  amaranthine  goddess, 

Beneath  the  rainbow  rim! 

For  thee  dusk  sun-rays  pencil 

The  slopings  of  the  wold, 
For  thee  fair  lilies  stencil 

The  ancient  cloth  of  gold. 


70  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Of  Tyrian  hue  thy  bodice, 

Thy  crown  the  dewdrops  trim, 

O  amaranthine  goddess, 
Beneath  the  rainbow  rim! 

The  breezes  all  pursue  thee, 

Moved  by  thy  virgin  pride. 
Great  Pan  himself  doth  woo  thee, 

And  seek  thee  for  his  bride. 
The  spot  where  thou  hast  trod  is 

A  jewel  cast  to  him, 
O  amaranthine  goddess, 

Beneath  the  rainbow  rim! 

C.  E.  D.  PHELPB. 

THE  PRESCIENCE  OF  THE  ROSE 

FROM  out  imprisoning  petals  —  velvet  red  — 

Thy  soul  slips  forth  in  fragrance  wondrous  sweet  — 

A  silent  subtle  presence  —  never  fled, 

That  makes  thy  mastery  over  me  complete. 

How  can  I  doubt  God  and  eternal  things 
When  I  look  on  thy  beauty  —  lovely  rose? 

A  sudden  certainty  within  me  springs  — 
The  very  gates  of  Heaven  to  me  unclose! 

Hast  thou,  then,  waited  all  this  weary  time 
From  tiny  bud  to  fullest  crimson  bloom  — 

With  hope  and  patience  wondrously  sublime 

Through  dismal,  dreary  months  of  cold  and  gloom? 

Hast  waited  for  my  sake  —  heroic  flower  — 

That  this  great  secret  —  hidden  close  with  thee  — 

Should  in  the  sacred  silence  of  this  hour 
Be  all  unfolded  and  revealed  to  me? 

ANGELA  MORGAN. 

THE  ROSY  MUSK-MALLOW 

(Romany  Love-Song) 

THE  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  where  the  south  wind  blows, 

O  my  gypsy  rose! 
In  the  deep  dusk  lanes  where  thou  and  I  must  meet; 

So  sweet! 

Before  the  harvest  moon's  gold  glints  over  the  dawn, 
Or  the  brown-sailed  trawler  returns  to  the  gray  sea-town, 
The  rosy  musk-mallow  sways,  and  the  south  wind's  laughter 

Follows  our  footsteps  after! 


UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS  71 

The  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  by  the  moor-brook's  flow, 

So  daintily  O! 
Where  thou  and  I  in  the  silence  of  night  must  pass, 

My  lass! 

Over  the  stream  with  its  ripple  of  song,  to-night, 
We  will  fly,  we  will  run  together,  my  heart's  delight! 
The  rosy  musk-mallow  sways,  and  the  moor-brook's  laughter 

Follows  our  footsteps  after! 

The  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  within  sound  of  the  sea; 

It  curtseys  to  thee, 
O  my  gypsy-queen,  it  curtseys  adown  to  thy  feet; 

So  sweet! 

When  dead  leaves  drift  through  the  dusk  of  the  autumn  day, 
The  rosy  musk-mallow  sways,  and  the  sea's  wild  laughter 

Follows  our  footsteps  after! 

The  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  where  the  dim  wood  sleeps 

And  the  bind-weed  creeps; 
Through  tangled  wood-paths  unknown  we  must  take  our  flight 

To-night! 

As  the  pale  hedge-lilies  around  the  dark  elder  wind, 
Clasp  thy  white  arms  about  me,  nor  look  behind. 
The  rosy  musk-mallow  is  closed,  and  the  soft  leaves'  laughter 

Follows  our  footsteps  after! 

ALICE  E.  GILLINGTON. 

WILD  ROSES  AND  SNOW 

How  sweet  the  sight  of  roses 

In  English  lanes  of  June, 
Where  every  flower  uncloses 

To  meet  the  kiss  of  noon. 

How  strange  the  sight  of  roses  — 

Roses  both  sweet  and  wild  — 
Seen  where  a  valley  closes 

'Mid  mountain  heights  up-piled. 

Upon  whose  sides  remaining 

Is  strewn  the  purest  snow, 
By  its  chill  power  restraining 

The  tide  of  spring's  soft  glow. 

Yet  God,  who  gave  the  pureness 

To  yon  fair  mountain  snow, 
Gives  also  the  secureness 

Whereby  these  roses  blow. 

MACKENZIE  BELL. 


72  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

THE  BLUE-BIRD 

SUNSHINE,  the  bird,  and  the  bended  bough, 
Hushed  and  afar  are  life's  troubles  now 
When  here  I  may  feel  the  flying  feet, 
The  throb  of  the  bird's  heart  flutter  sweet, 
And  all  the  unforgotten  bliss 
That  thrills  her,  when  she  sings  like  this, 
Upon  yon  bended  bough. 

Oh  to  cling  for  a  wild  mad  moment  of  bliss 
To  a  bended  bough  with  a  lover's  kiss, 
To  stay  for  an  instant  the  flying  feet, 
To  know  the  pain  of  a  joy  complete, 
To  waken  Memory,  to  thrill  anew 
At  the  ghost-spray's  touch,  O  bird  of  blue, 
How  I  envy  you! 

MARION  THORNTON  EGBERT. 

ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

BARE,  low,  tawny  hills 

With  bluer  heights  beyond, 
And  the  air  is  sweet  with  spring, 

But  when  will  the  earth  respond? 

Prairie  that  rolls  for  leagues, 

Dusky  and  golden-pale, 
Like  a  stirless  sea  of  waves, 

Unbroken  by  ship  or  sail. 

The  hollows  are  dark  with  brush, 
And  black  with  the  wash  of  showers, 

And  ragged  with  bleaching  wreck 
Of  the  ranks  of  the  tall  sunflowers. 

No  cloud  in  the  blue,  no  stir 

Save  the  shrill  of  the  wind  in  the  grass, 

And  the  meadow-lark's  note,  and  the  call 
Of  the  wind-borne  crows  that  pass. 

Bare,  low,  tawny  hills, 

With  bluer  heights  beyond, 
And  the  air  is  sweet  with  spring, 

But  when  will  the  earth  respond? 

HERBERT  BATES. 


UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS  73 

THE  BLUE  GENTIANS 

THE  fairest  blossoms  ever  bloom  the  last; 

For  fleeting  Summer,  Mother  of  the  flowers, 

Mindful  her  joyous,  sunny  reign  will  soon  be  past, 

Has  deemed  that,  moved  by  beauties  brighter,  rarer, 

The  Chill  Destroyer  of  her  happy  hours 

Might  step,  perchance,  aside  and  so  would  spare  her. 

With  fond,  regretful  eyes  and  saddened  pride 

Upon  her  fragrant  footprints  back  she  looks 

Where  bloomed  the  violets  and  the  wild  rose  gleamed  and  died; 

And  at  the  living  gaze  the  murmurs  run 

Through  dells  and  vales,  by  rills  and  dancing  brooks, 

Of  blossoms  laughing  in  the  autumn  sun. 

Their  petals  twist  at  morn  and  tipped  with  dew 
To  warm  noon  yield  and  lift  a  fringe-lipped  and 
Pure  sapphired  chalice  of  that  deep  and  richer  hue 
Than  tint  of  sky  or  sea,  beyond  compare, 
That  sprang  to  view  when  God  first  laid  His  hand 
Upon  the  cloud  and  left  the  rainbow  there. 

They  are  the  Gentians,  left  alone  to  face 

The  unrelenting  King  of  Snow  and  Rime 

By  Summer  fled  and  gone;  these  blossoms  fit  to  grace 

The  wondrous  gardens  washed  by  southern  seas, 

Flung  as  a  hostage  to  the  Wintry  Time, 

Bend,  droop,  and  wither  in  the  frosty  breeze. 

EDWARD  RYAN  WOODLE. 

TO  A  FLOCK  OF  GEESE 

YE  wild,  free  troopers  of  the  skies 

That  ride  in  wedged  ranks  the  blue 
And  unmarked  roads  of  Paradise, 

Who  else  but  God  had  tutored  you 
That  wind  beset  and  tempest  form 

To  buffet  you  with  mighty  sledge, 
Ye  still  sweep  onward  through  the  storm 

With  that  unbroken  wedge? 

Thrill  me  again,  ye  serried  host, 

With  that  shrill  challenge  which  defies 

The  strength  of  whatsoever  post 
Is  set  to  guard  the  bending  skies 


74  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Against  such  rangers  as  ye  are 

That  dare  with  swift  and  rhythmic  wings 

The  night  unlighted  of  a  star 
To  guide  God's  feathered  things. 

Ye  are  the  joy  of  being  wild, 

The  sign  and  symbol  of  a  blest 
Estate  so  sweet  and  undefiled 

It  breathes  its  spirit  undistressed 
Adown  the  heights  to  which  have  soared 

Since  Eden  was  our  deepest  sighs  — 
Thrill  me  again,  ye  clamant  horde, 

With  your  wild-ringing  cries. 

CLARK  McAoAMS. 

THE  FALL  WIND 

THE  wind  has  stalked  adown  the  garden  path, 

And  blown  the  lights  of  all  the  poor  flowers  out; 

From  maple  wood  I  hear  his  stormy  shout; 
The  russet  leaves  take  flight  before  his  wrath; 
In  stubble  fields  and  clover-aftermath, 

The  wreckage  of  the  year  is  strewn  around; 

The  mottled  asters  he  upon  the  ground. 
Of  all  the  bloom,  the  tyrant  north  wind  hath 

Left  only  golden-rod,  in  saffron  rows,  — 

And  these,  with  bulging  cheeks,  he  blows  and  blows, 

Until  they  glow,  and  mingle  with  the  west, 
When  setting  suns  lean  low  upon  the  land, 

And  songless  birds,  in  cheerless  plumage  dressed, 
Wing  south  or  somewhere;  mute,  discouraged  band. 

JOHN  STUART  THOMSON. 

TO  A   DAISY 

AH!  I'm  feared  thou's  come  too  sooin, 

Little  daisy! 
Pray  whativer  wor  ta  doin'? 

Are  ta  crazy? 

Winter  winds  are  blowin'  yet. 
Tha'll  be  starved,  mi  little  pet! 

Did  a  gleam  o'  sunshine  warm  thee; 

An'  deceive  thee? 
Niver  let  appearance  charm  thee; 

Yes,  believe  me, 

Smiles  tha'lt  find  are  oft  but  snares 
Laid  to  catch  thee  unawares. 


UNDER    GOD'S   HEAVENS  75 

An'  yet,  I  think  it  looks  a  shame 

To  talk  sich  stuff; 
I've  lost  heart,  an'  thou  'It  do  t'  same, 

Ay,  sooin  enough! 
An'  if  thou'rt  happy  as  tha  art, 
Trustin'  must  be  t'  wisest  part. 

Come!  I'll  pile  some  bits  o'  stoan 

Round  thi  dwellin'; 
They  may  cheer  the  when  I've  goan,  — 

Theer's  no  tellin'; 

An'  when  Spring's  mild  day  draws  near 
I'll  release  thee,  never  fear! 

An'  then  if  thi  pretty  face 

Greets  me  smilin', 
I  may  come  an'  sit  by  th'  place, 

Time  beguilin', 
Glad  to  think  I  'd  paar  to  be 
Of  some  use  if  but  to  thee! 

JOHN  HARTLEY. 

A  SONG  FOR  OCTOBER 

FRUITFUL  October!  so  fair  and  calm, 

Singing  of  God  and  his  charity, 
Every  note  of  thy  joyous  psalm 

Chords  of  my  heart  give  back  to  thee. 
Joy  for  the  riches  thy  bounty  yields 
Over  the  breadth  of  our  smiling  fields ! 
Out  of  the  months  that  have  gone  before, 
Gathering  tribute  from  this  thy  store, 
E  'en  from  the  torpid  December  moon, 
From  the  vernal  rains  and  the  heats  of  June, 
All  that  was  good  thou  hast  drawn  and  brought. 

Nothing  a  loss; 

E'en  from  the  dross, 
Alchemist  marvellous,  thou  hast  wrought 
Misted  gold  for  thy  noon's  delights, 
Silver  of  frost  for  thy  twinkling  nights. 
Blest  be  thy  blessing,  all  thy  beauty  now 
Glows  as  a  diadem  on  thy  brow, 

So,  let  me  sing  to  thee, 

So,  let  me  bring  to  thee 
Praise  of  the  queen  of  my  soul,  for  she, 
Bountiful  bringer  of  joys  to  me, 
Wearing  thy  glory,  is  kin  to  thee. 


76  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

How  hath  she  wrought  with  the  passing  years? 
All  of  their  pleasures  and  pains  and  tears, 
All  their  rose  hopes  and  their  pallid  fears, 
Through  her  sweet  being  have  issued  forth 
Fused  into  treasure  of  priceless  worth. 
Look  on  the  fruits  of  her  alchemy, 
Lisping  their  music  around  her  knee. 
Muse  on  the  splendor  of  her  sweet  face, 
Motherly  wisdom  and  maiden  grace. 
Gold  of  your  noon  time  is  in  her  hair; 
Aye,  and  your  silver  of  frost  is  there. 
Tell  her,  October,  O,  who  so  fair? 
Not  even  thou 
Weareth  a  brow 

Fuller  of  beauty  or  freer  of  care. 
O  for  the  guerdon  of  quiet  bliss, 
For  the  yet  warm  heart  and  the  cool  sweet  kiss 
Of  her  perfect  loving;  for  this,  for  this, 
Fruitful  October,  so  fair  and  calm, 

Singing  of  God  and  His  charity, 
Every  note  of  thy  joyous  psalm 

Chords  of  my  heart  give  back  to  thee! 

T.  A.  DALY. 

THE  FIRST  BUD  0'    THE   YEAR 

THERE  whispered  in  my  ear 
A  little  tip-toe  Wind: 
"I  know  where  you  may  find 

The  first  bud  o'  the  year." 

I  ran,  outstripping  Grief, 
And  soon  the  bud  I  found 
Just  peeping  through  the  ground, 

Wrapt  in  last  year's  leaf. 

And  so  some  hope  may  wend 

Perchance  unto  my  tomb 

To  find  thereon  a  bloom 
That  shall  the  old  loss  mend. 

CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN. 

A   ROSE 

ALL  day  with  bright,  appealing  face, 

Upon  my  study  table, 
A  red,  red  rose  asked  me  to  give 

What  gods  were  quite  unable  — - 


UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS  77 

Asked  me  to  give  it  back  again 

Into  the  garden's  keeping, 
Where  winds  were  low  and  there  their  tears 

The  nightingales  were  weeping. 

Till  eve  I  drank  its  wine  perfume  — 

My  soul  the  nectar  needed; 
Alas,  how  impotent  was  I 

To  do  the  thing  it  pleaded; 
I  could  but  drink,  and  drinking  know 

I  was  its  endless  debtor  — 
For  who  can  pay  the  soul  that  heals 

His  soul  and  breaks  his  fetter? 

CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN. 

THE  EAGLE 

How  the  eagle  does:  — 

Gathering  up  his  might, 
Quitting  where  he  was, 

Soars  he  in  the  height. 
But  his  aerie  home 

Is  not  always  grand: 
Now  on  mountain  dome, 

Now  in  lowly  land. 
In  a  rugged  wold, 

Be  it  but  apart, 
He  shall  build  his  hold, 

Take  his  mighty  start. 
Where  he  makes  his  bed, 

Where  he  piles  his  lair, 
Turns  his  noble  head, 

'Tis  the  king  that 's  there. 
Where  he  heaps  his  nest, 

Where  he  lies  in  state, 
Where  he  takes  his  rest, 

There  the  place  is  great. 

TIMOTHY  OTIS  PAINE. 

THE  TIMBER  WOLVES 

WE  are  the  slaves  of  the  timber  land  — 

Me  and  the  black  and  bay. 

We  work  by  the  day  for  a  pittance  of  pay, 

Pork  for  the  man  and  the  horses'  hay! 

Slaves!  —  I  say?  — 

Of  the  skid  and  the  sleigh?  — 

'Twas  the  echoed  word 


78  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Of  the  world  you  heard,  — 

For  the  nags  and  me 

Are  the  wind  and  the  tree  — 

And  none  so  free! 

We  're  czars  of  the  lumbering  band! 

We  sound  for  the  sun  his  reveille, 

With  the  clang  of  the  logging-chain, 

And  the  biting  of  the  frost  disdain! 

We  warm  to  the  work  and  won't  complain. 

Ours  the  woods  of  Maine! 

(Shiver!  ye  fields  of  cane!) 

Hills  of  snow  and  a  hammering  bell! 

Four  thousand  scale  as  hard  as  hell! 

Get  up,  Jack!  —  Together,  Nell! 

Break  your  tugs! 

Shake  your  lugs!  — 

Your  frozen  steam 

Is  a  passing  dream 

When  you  sleep  in  the  straw  with  me! 

The  slaves  are  rolling  the  logs  of  towns!  — 

Give  'em  the  lot  they  've  drawn! 

The  blood  and  brawn,  and  the  liquor  of  dawn 

Are  enough  for  us!     We  're  up  and  gone!  — 

A  ten-league  run 

Is  a  race  with  the  sun! 

The  horses'  keep, 

And  a  cave  for  sleep  — 

(Better  a  bear  than  a  shivering  sheep) 

Meat  and  bread, 

And  a  blanket-bed  — 

And  the  prayers  for  more  we  leave  to  clowns! 

To  the  hags  of  storm  my  song  is  hurled! 

My  poem  's  the  creak  of  the  hickory  rack! 

The  lashes'  crack,  in  the  woods  rung  back, 

Is  a  fire  in  the  veins  of  the  bay  and  black! 

How  they  dance, 

And  heave  and  prance! 

O,  wild  and  free, 

We  're  comrades  three  — 

Born  of  the  wind  and  wave! 

Little  to  lose  or  save  — 

What  of  the  grave!  — 

The  boss  of  care  is  the  king  of  the  world! 

IVAN  SWIFT. 


UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS  79 

A  LEAF 

FROM  out  the  topmost  bulb  —  a  budding  sentry  — 
A  leaflet  spread  its  green  against  the  blue; 

The  songsters  heralded  its  earthly  entry 

And  it  was  christened  in  the  morning's  dew. 

All  through  the  summer,  on  an  oak  that  towered, 

A  stately  captain  of  his  lordly  kind, 
It  fanned  the  birdlings  in  their  nest  embowered, 

Or  from  their  housing  turned  the  churlish  wind. 

Then  autumn  chanting  came,  in  vestments  sober, 

Bearing  the  cup  of  dissolution's  lees; 
Forth  in  the  majesty  of  hazed  October, 

A  withered  leaf  was  hearsed  upon  the  breeze. 

JOHN  McGovERN. 

WHERE  THE  MOUNTAIN  SIPS   THE  SEA 

WHERE  the  mountain  sips  the  sea, 
By  an  ocean  wild  and  free, 
On  a  shore  of  grass  and  tree, 
Shall  my  future  dwelling  be. 

There  at  Nature's  very  heart 
She  should  unto  me  impart 
All  the  secrets  of  her  art.  — 
Then,  awhile,  I  would  depart. 

Seek  the  haunts  of  men  again; 
Tell  them  how  they  can  obtain 
Freedom  from  all  fear  and  pain, 
So  they  list  to  this  refrain:  — 

"Come  to  me,  O  child  of  mine!  — 

Why  in  misery  repine 

When  a  happiness  divine 

For  the  seeking  can  be  thine?" 

Thus  to  children  of  her  choice 
Constantly  calls  Nature's  voice, 
Through  the  world's  discordant  noise.  — 
Heed  it,  and  you  will  rejoice. 

CHARLES  JAMES. 


80  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

SOCOBIE'S  PASSING 

SOCOBIE,  aged  and  bent  with  pain, 
At  the  time  of  the  year  when  the  red  leaves  fly, 
Crawled  from  his  tent  door  down  to  the  river. 
"I  will  try  my  wrist  and  my  skill  again 
And  sweep  a  paddle  before  I  die." 

Time  falls  —  the  wind  falls  —  the  gray  geese  draw  on. 
There  is  silence  and  peace  on  our  mother  Saint  John. 

Socobie,  once  a  king  of  his  tribe, 

Once  a  lover,  a  poet,  a  man, 

Launched  his  sun-scarred  craft  to  the  river. 

"  I  will  try  my  strength  where  the  rapids  jibe  — 

I  will  run  her  sheer,  as  a  master  can." 

At  the  time  of  the  year  when  the  pass  is  blue 
And  the  spent  leaf  falls  in  the  empty  wood, 
Socobie  put  out  on  the  merry  river; 
The  brown  blade  lifted  the  white  canoe  — 
The  rapids  shouted,  the  forests  stood. 

Down  in  the  village  the  hearths  were  bright, 
And  the  night-frost  gleamed  in  the  after-grass, 
And  the  farmers  were  homing  up  from  the  river, 
When  out  of  the  star-mist,  slender  and  white 
A  birch  craft  leaped  and  they  watched  it  pass. 

Time  falls  —  the  frost  falls  —  the  great  stars  draw  on. 
What  voice  cries  "Farewell"  to  our  mother  Saint  John? 

THEODORE  ROBERTS. 

THE  NEW  APHRODITE 

OUT  of  the  deep  sea-stream, 

Into  the  light  and  the  air, 
Rose  like  a  gracious  dream 

Venus  the  fair. 

How  much  of  sorrow  and  rue, 

How  much  of  joy  and  peace, 
Sprang  that  day  from  the  blue 

Waters  of  Greece! 

Oh,  from  a  Cyclad's  verge, 

Or  swift  galley's  prow,  to  have  seen 

Her,  the  world's  wonder,  emerge, 
Veiled  in  the  sheen 


UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS  81 

Of  her  glorious  sea-dripping  locks, 

Buoyant  of  limb,  and  as  bright 
As  the  sole  star  that  leads  out  the  flocks 

Of  the  shepherdess  Night! 

But  what  avails  it  to  sigh 

For  a  glimpse  of  that  day  withdrawn? 
Not  for  long  in  the  sky 

Stays  the  fair  dawn. 

Ours  the  nobler  lot 

Under  the  broad  noon-tide, 
Gazing,  to  falter  not, 

Till  from  the  wide 

Ocean  of  life  we  behold 

Rising  in  splendor  and  might, 
Fairer  than  Venus  of  old, 

Calmer  than  Night, 

Purer  than  Dawn,  or  the  blue 

Depths  of  ether  untrod, 
Nature,  the  only,  the  true 

Daughter  of  God. 

W.  P.  TRENT. 

MY  LADY  ANEMONE 

BENEATH  soft  snows  harsh  winter  lingering 
Takes  stand,  betimes,  against  th'  advancing  spring 
To  find  itself  betrayed  before  its  flight  — 
Within  their  midst  that  daintiest  eremite, 
Th'  anemone,  dear  April's  solacing. 

Rare  this,  but  rarer  note  doth  nature  ring 
When  silvery  locks,  time's  counterfeits,  soft  cling 
About  a  visage  pink  with  vernal  light 
Beneath  soft  snows! 

What  lovelier  fancy  can  she  set  a-wing? 
Here  rifted  age  holds  youth  in  th'  opening; 
Here  wisdom's  hoary  poll,  in  sweet  despite, 
Is  set  to  crown  a  face  of  pure  delight  — 
The  wind-flower  face  I  all  too  faintly  sing 
Beneath  soft  snows. 

JOHN  JARVIS  HOLDEN. 


82  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

HARVEST-HOME  SONG 

THE  frost  will  bite  us  soon; 

His  tooth  is  on  the  leaves: 
Beneath  the  golden  moon 

We  bring  the  golden  sheaves: 
We  care  not  for  the  winter's  spite, 
We  keep  our  Harvest-home  to-night. 

Hurrah  for  the  English  yeoman! 
Fill  full;  fill  the  cup! 

Hurrah!  he  yields  to  no  man! 
Drink  deep;  drink  it  up! 

The  pleasure  of  a  king 

Is  tasteless  to  the  mirth 
Of  peasants  when  they  bring 

The  harvest  of  the  earth. 
With  pipe  and  tabor  hither  roam 
All  ye  who  love  our  Harvest-home. 

The  thresher  with  his  flail, 

The  shepherd  with  his  crook, 
The  milkmaid  with  her  pail, 

The  reaper  with  his  hook  — 
To-night  the  dullest  blooded  clods 
Are  kings  and  queens,  are  demigods. 
Hurrah  for  the  English  yeoman! 

Fill  full;  fill  the  cup! 
Hurrah!  he  yields  to  no  man! 
Drink  deep;  drink  it  up! 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

WINTER 

THE  wind  blows  high,  the  wind  blows  low. 
The  buried  prairies  in  the  snow 

Lie  warm  and  deep. 
Safe  under  Winter's  soft  white  wing 
A  little  seedling  dreams  of  spring, 

Stirs  in  its  sleep. 

The  wind  has  gone,  and  softly  come 
Small  furry  friends  from  drifted  home, 

Hungry  —  a-fright  — 
The  marks  of  tiny  footsteps  show, 
Like  frozen  music-notes,  on  snow 

All  silent,  white. 

MARY  BALDWIN. 


UNDER    GOD'S    HEAVENS  83 

WHERE  MY   TREASURE  IS 

LORD  of  the  living,  when  my  race  is  run, 
Will  that  I  pass  beneath  the  risen  sun; 
Suffer  my  sight  to  dim  upon  some  scene 
Of  Thy  good  green. 

Let  my  last  pillow  be  the  earth  I  love, 
With  fair  infinity  of  blue  above; 
And  fleeting,  purple  shadow  of  a  cloud 
My  only  shroud. 

A  little  lark,  above  the  Morning  Star, 
Shall  shrill  the  tidings  of  my  end  afar; 
The  muffled  music  of  a  lone  sheep-bell 
Shall  be  my  knell. 

And  where  stone  heroes  trod  the  moor  of  old, 
Where  bygone  wolf  howled  round  a  granite  fold, 
Hide  Thou,  beneath  the  heather's  newborn  light, 
My  endless  night. 

ANONYMOUS. 
THE   TORRENT* 

I  FOUND  a  torrent  falling  in  a  glen 

Where  the  sun's  light  shone  silvered  and  leaf -split; 

The  boom,  the  foam,  and  the  mad  flash  of  it 
All  made  a  magic  symphony;  but  when 
I  thought  upon  the  coming  of  hard  men 

To  cut  those  patriarchal  trees  away, 

And  turn  to  gold  the  silver  of  that  spray, 
I  shuddered.     But  a  gladness  now  and  then 

Did  wake  me  to  myself  till  I  was  glad 
In  earnest,  and  was  welcoming  the  time 
For  screaming  saws  to  sound  above  the  chime 
Of  idle  waters,  and  for  me  to  know 

The  jealous  visionings  that  I  had  had 
Were  steps  to  the  great  place  where  trees  and  torrents  go. 
EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF   THE  NORTH 

THE  sea  blood  slumbering  in  our  veins 
Through  the  life  we  've  led  on  hills  and  plains 
Has  caught  the  sound  of  waves  once  more 
That  break  upon  the  northern  shore. 

*From  "Children  of  the  Night."    Copyright,  1905,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


84  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

And  a  thousand  years  are  swept  away  — 
The  Vikings'  time  was  yesterday  — 
We  cannot  live  in  land-locked  bowers, 
The  sea  is  ours!    The  sea  is  ours! 

And  we  '11  scour  the  seas  in  our  ships  of  steam, 
And  our  merchantmen  with  their  sails  shall  gleam, 
And  it  shall  come  to  all  men's  ken 
That  the  old  north  spirit  moves  again. 

OSCAR  WILLIAMS. 

AMICO  SUO 

WHEN  on  my  country  walks  I  go, 

I  never  am  alone: 
Though  whom  't  were  pleasure  then  to  know 

Are  gone,  and  you  are  gone; 
From  every  side  discourses  flow. 

There  are  rich  counsels  in  the  trees, 

And  converse  in  the  air; 
All  magic  thoughts  in  those  and  these 

Are  what  is  sweet  and  rare; 
And  everything  that  living  is. 

But  most  I  love  the  meaner  sort, 

For  they  have  voices  too; 
Yet  speak  with  tongues  that  never  hurt, 

As  ours  are  apt  to  do: 
The  weeds,  the  grass,  the  common  wort. 

HERBERT  P.  HORNE. 

THE  BLESSED  RAIN* 

DEAR  heart,  dost  thou  complain 
When  the  kind  God  sends  rain? 

Think  of  the  thirsting  crops 

That  drink  the  beady  drops  — 
Think  of  the  flowers,  unfolding  all  their  sweets  — 
The  city's  burning  streets, 

The  famished  flocks  upon  the  mountain  tops  — 
The  windless  casements,  where  the  sick  in  vain 
Cry  for  the  cool,  sweet  rain! 
Think  —  and  thank  God 
For  every  drop  that  quivers  on  a  clod! 

FRANK  L.  STANTON. 

*  Reprinted  from  Stanton's  "  Up  from  Georgia."    Copyright,  1902, 
by  D.  Appleton  and  Company. 


UNDER   GOD'S   HEAVENS  85 

A  FORETASTE  OF  SPRING 

SWEET  and  golden  afternoon 
Of  the  infant  summer, 

Joyous  one! 

Merry  trills  of  laughter  soon 
Peep  and  tremble  and  embrace, 
Flee  and  turn  again  to  race 

Through  the  sun; 
Morning,  slow  old  nurse,  is  lost, 
Birds  and  souls  and  flowers  are  tost 
In  the  sunlit  pentecost  — 
Winter  's  done! 

Birds  are  chirping  melodies 
Made  of  clear  notes  vanishing 

In  the  sky! 
Yonder  hum  the  yellow  bees, 

Hither  sway  the  tender  branches, 
Mad  young  winds  in  avalanches 

Scurry  by; 

All  the  flowers  bloom  a-blushing, 
Rapture  through  the  soul  is  rushing, 
Suddenly  there  comes  a  hushing  — 
Night  is  nigh ! 

GEORGE  HERBERT  CLARKE. 

SILVER  AND  LAVENDER 

THE  asters  now  put  on  the  lavender 

Of  grief  remembered,  yet  grief  half -assuaged  — 

The  tender  purple  in  the  sky  astir 

Upon  the  ground  in  little  stars  engaged: 

Tears  have  been  shed,  these  tiny  eyes  declare; 

Tears  shall  be  shed,  but  still  is  Heaven  fair. 

Pale  mourning  for  dead  Summer  clothes  the  silver-rod  — 
Those  frosty  flowers  that  still  defy  the  frost  — 

Whose  arms  droop  gently  toward  the  crisping  sod, 
Whose  upward  gaze  bespeaks  a  hope  not  lost; 

White  clouds  reflect  their  beauties  far  on  high: 

Silver  and  lavender  clothes  earth  and  sky. 

WILLIAM  SHATTUCK. 


86  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

EUTHANASIA 

BEYOND  the  far  horizon,  many-hilled, 

There  glows  a  rosy  light  upon  the  year  — 
A  flashing  message,  and  the  woods  have  thrilled 

With  the  glad  promise  of  long-looked-for  cheer, 

Age-old,  yet  ever  new  as  it  draws  near: 
A  fluttering  of  soft  wings  the  frost  had  chilled, 

A  trumpeting  within  the  gentling  sky, 
A  chanting  in  the  meadows,  many  rilled 
By  soft,  sweet  showers  the  heavens  have  distilled, 

As  weary  Winter  lays  him  down  to  die. 

A  dropping  of  brown  leaves  that  autumn  killed, 

A  whisper  of  dry  rushes  at  the  weir, 
A  murmurous  rustle  that  has  long  been  stilled, 

Where  sibilant  grasses  lift  their  slender  spear 

Some  shrinking  snow-bank  now  to  fright  and  fleer; 
And  all  the  embattled  weeds  that  toiled  and  drilled 

Against  the  north  winds  that  they  durst  not  fly, 
Put  down  the  arms  through  which  the  gales  have  shrilled, 
Leaving  a  nest  whereon  their  children  build, 

As  weary  Winter  lays  him  down  to  die. 

Now  doth  the  herald  dandelion  gild 

Some  warm  bright  corner  with  his  sunny  gear; 

Now  hath  the  robin  joyous  music  trilled 

Upon  the  quickening  branches,  etched  and  clear 
Against  a  firmament  clean  stripped  of  fear; 

Now  doth  the  fertile  field,  so  long  untilled, 
Grow  tender*  green  with  promise  fine  and  high, 

Glistening  with  the  dews  soft  clouds  have  spilled 

That  earth's  fair  prophecy  may  be  fulfilled 
As  weary  Winter  lays  him  down  to  die. 

L'Envoi 

O  Nature,  Mother  Nature,  sweetly  skilled 

In  life  and  love,  let  not  sweet  Spring  go  by 
Unheeding;  hast  thou  not  for  me,  too,  willed 
An  April  soul,  a  heart  with  May-bloom  filled, 
As  weary  Winter  lays  htm  down  to  die? 

EDWARD  WINSHIP. 


Part  m 
SPORT   IN    THE    OPEN 


THE  COLLEGE  ATHLETE 

STATUE-LIKE  standeth  he  forth,  quick,  elate, 

Sculptured  from  living  flesh,  and  closely  planned 

As  any  marble  from  the  sculptor's  hand 
In  poise  and  posture,  stature,  frame,  and  weight; 
Thoughtful  months,  too,  are  in  his  making:  Fate, 

Win  he  or  lose,  here  is  not  blind;  command 

Is  laid  that  sinew  and  brain  understand: 
One  fine  tool,  calculated,  delicate. 

Yet  art  sufficeth  not.     To  gain  his  end 
With  glory  soul  must  be;  the  selfishness 

Which  bringeth  sparks  from  Paradise  to  earth 
Muscle  and  mind  to  kindle  and  transcend; 
Some  high  ideal  he  will  not  confess, 

Such  as  hath  given  martyrs  mortal  birth. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


SPORT  IN  THE  OPEN 


A  BALLADE  OF  LAWN  TENNIS 

SOME  gain  a  universal  fame 

By  dint  of  pugilistic  might; 
To  some  all  sports  seem  very  tame 

Except  a  fierce  and  fistic  fight; 

Some  love  the  tourney,  too,  in  spite 
Of  ancient  armor,  helm,  and  crest, 

Where  knights  are  smitten  and  do  smite  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

Some  love  to  take  a  gun  and  aim 

At  pretty  birdlings  in  their  flight; 
Some  also  think  it  is  no  shame 

To  make  poor  trout  and  pickerel  bite; 

Some  chase  the  deer  from  morn  till  night  — 
I  like  not  such  a  bloody  quest, 

My  sport  is  harmless,  pleasant,  light  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

Some  for  the  ancient,  royal  game 

Of  golf.     Arrayed  in  colors  bright, 
They  '11  play  until  they  're  sore  and  lame  — 

A  frenzy  without  justice,  quite. 

Baseball  and  football  are  all  right, 
Polo  and  cricket  and  the  rest 

Of  sports  too  many  to  recite  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

L' Envoi 

Queen  of  the  Court,  my  skill  is  slight 

In  rhyming,  but  perhaps  you  've  guessed 
Why  this  ballade  I  thus  indite  — 
I  like  the  Game  of  Tennis  best. 

FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS. 
89 


90  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

MY  BICYCLE 

THE  sun  looks  o  'er  the  mountain  fair, 

Its  smiles  the  landscape  greet; 
The  songs  of  birds  are  in  the  air, 

As  I  spring  upon  the  seat: 
A  quick  press  on  the  pedal  strong 
And,  like  a  bird,  I  skim  along. 

Farewell  to  cares  that  may  annoy, 

To  toil  that  tires  the  brain; 
New  vigor  sends  a  thrill  of  joy 

Through  every  tingling  vein, 
As  on  I  swiftly  speed  my  way 
'Mid  beauteous  scenes  of  rising  day. 

My  soul  responds  to  each  appeal 

Of  nature's  varied  grace; 
The  charm  of  stream  and  wood  I  feel, 

Each  lovely  prospect  trace, 
As  swift  and  silent  on  I  fly 
'Mid  rural  scenes  and  azure  sky. 

At  length  I  stop  beneath  a  tree 

Where  wells  a  cooling  spring, 
And  drink,  inclined  on  bended  knee, 

Its  waters  murmuring; 
A  moment  on  the  grass  I  rest, 
My  brow  by  grateful  breeze  caressed. 

Then  homeward  I  as  quickly  fare,  • 

With  heart  and  brain  elate, 
To  take  again,  with  lightened  care, 

The  duties  that  await, 
Exulting  that  my  wheel  each  hour 
Can  bring  me  such  a  joy  and  power. 

F.  V.  N.  PAINTER. 

THE  CALL  OF   THE  STREAM 

I  AM  sitting  to-day  at  the  desk  alone, 

And  the  figures  are  hard  to  tame; 
I  'd  like  to  shift  to  a  mossy  stone 

Nor  bother  with  pelf  and  fame. 
I  know  a  pool  where  the  waters  cool 

Rest  under  the  brawling  falls, 
And  the  song  and  gleam  of  that  mountain  stream  — 

Oh,  it  calls,  and  calls,  and  calls! 


SPORTINTHEOPEN  91 

There  are  hooks  and  lines  in  a  wayside  store 

Where  the  grangers  buy  their  plug, 
And  the  loggers  swap  their  river-lore 

For  a  jag  they  can  hardly  lug. 
I  wonder  how  long  that  tackle  will  he 

As  useless  as  any  dumb  fool 
Unless  I  happen  along  to  buy, 

And  sneak  for  that  mountain  pool. 

Oh,  bother  the  flies,  I  guess  I  've  enough, 

I  know  where  the  worms  are  thick 
By  Billy's  old  barn  —  Oh,  they  are  the  stuff  — 

You  can  dig  a  quart  with  a  stick. 
The  reel  is  all  right  and  the  line  is  tight, 

And  if  they  should  happen  to  fail 
There  's  little  birch  rods  that  are  fit  for  gods 

When  they  follow  the  trout-brook  trail. 

I  jing!  the  demon  has  rung  me  up  — 

The  "central"  up  in  the  woods  — 
Waders,  and  creel,  and  a  pocket-cup ! 

I  'm  after  the  only  goods. 
Wire  for  Hank  and  the  old  buckboard  — 

The  secret,  I  guess,  is  out  — 
Don't  bother  me  now  —  you  '11  get  in  a  row  — 

I  'm  catching  the  train  for  trout. 

CHARLES  H.  CRANDALL. 

THE  CINDER  PATH 

THE  start  —  the  strain  —  the  springing! 
The  leap  —  the  flight  —  the  winging! 
The  roll  of  footsteps  spurning 
The  footpath  toward  us  turning! 
The  white  goal  growing  clearer, 
The  huzzas  sounding  nearer, 
The  spurt,  the  fierce  contending  — 
The  rush,  the  ease,  the  ending! 

The  glow  of  victory  feeling, 
The  sounds  of  triumph  pealing, 
The  one  fair  face  all  beaming, 
With  exultation  gleaming; 
The  breast  so  quickly  heaving  — 
The  wreath  of  her  own  weaving  — 
All  make  us  greet  our  inning 
And  make  the  race  worth  winning! 

CHARLES  H.  CRANDALL. 


92  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

BALLADE  OF   THE  FAN 

MADLY  I  long  for  the  day 

When  I  can  sit  in  the  sun 
Roasting  each  negligent  play 

After  the  game  has  begun. 

This  is  the  acme  of  fun, 
Other  amusements  seem  flat; 

Ho  for  the  corking  home  run, 
Ho  for  the  crack  of  the  bat! 

Now  that  the  team  is  away, 

All  other  news  do  I  shun; 
Closely  I  scan  the  array, 

Noting  each  promising  one; 

All  of  my  work  is  undone, 
Chaos  presides  'neath  my  hat; 

Ho  for  the  corking  home  run, 
Ho  for  the  crack  of  the  bat! 

Eagerly  waiting  the  fray 

Much  as  old  Attila,  Hun, 
Waiting  to  pounce  on  his  prey, 

Daily  I'm  praying  (no  pun) 

Just  for  the  opening  gun, 
Nothing  can  stir  me  but  that; 

Ho  for  the  corking  home  run, 
Ho  for  the  crack  of  the  bat! 

L 'Envoi 

White  Sox!     Go  after  the  bun; 

Pin  them  all  down  to  the  mat, 
Ho  for  the  corking  home  run! 

Ho  for  the  crack  of  the  bat! 

WILLIAM  F.  KIRK. 

BASEBALL  BY  THE  OLD 

THIS  is  the  time  of  the  year,  my  boys, 
When  we  all  get  out  and  make  a  noise 
To  see  the  oldsters  fall  in  line 
And  act  like  boys  in  a  baseball  nine. 

Just  see  that  fat  man  and  his  nerve, 
Who  can't  come  near  the  simplest  curve! 
Just  see  that  man  so  lean  and  thin 
Who  don't  know  if  he  's  out  or  in! 


SPORT   I  NTHE   OPEN  93 

Observe  that  slide  the  ground  uproot! 

See  batsmen  dodging  at  a  shoot! 

See,  waving  wildly  in  the  air, 

The  strikes  that  should  be  home  runs  there! 

And  when  at  last  that  game  is  done 
And  ended  the  spectators'  fun, 
The  sprains  and  woe  that  hold  in  thrall 
The  gray-head  who  would  play  baseball! 

ANONYMOUS. 

A   SUMMER  SERMON  FOR  MEN 

"I  HAVE  fought  a  good  fight,"  the  Parson  said,  his  weekly  text 

declaring, 
"I  have  finished  my  course,"  he  added,  as  St.  Paul  did,  for 

good  measure; 
"And,  brethren,  life  a  ball  game  is"— the  brethren  all  were 

staring  — 

"As  I  shall  now  proceed  to  prove  to  you  at  your  good  pleas 
ure. 

"The  Soul  stands  up  to  bat,  my  friends;  great  Mammon  is  the 

catcher; 

St.  Michael  is  the  umpire,  and  so  mighty  is  his  stature 
There  's  not  a  dirty  devil  on  the  dark  side  of  the  bleachers 
Dare  even  curl  in  scorn  at  him  his  least  conspicuous  features; 
Red  Satan  is  the  pitcher,  and  his  curves  are  simply  wonders  — 
In  and  out,  and  snaked  about,  and  swift  as  crushing  thunders; 
And  on  the  Bases,  in  the  Field,  the  Deadly  Sins,  just  seven, 
Stand  guard  to  keep  the  Christian  Soul  from  the  Home  Plate 

of  Heaven. 
Greed  stands  at  First,  one  hand,  or  both,  the  ball  full  sure  to 

hold  to; 
With  Pride  at  Second,  playing  deep,  and  playing  very  bold, 

too; 
Black   Hate's    at  Third,  with  grounders  sure,  good  thrower, 

never  swerving; 

And  Lust  is  Short-Stop  (handy  man,  with  eyes  too  much  ob 
serving)  ; 
Old  Envy's  playing  Left  —  he  's  pulled  sky-scrapers  down  by 

dozens; 

And  Sloth  at  Centre,  slow  but  sure,  is  backing  up  his  cousins; 
While   Jealousy,    meanest  of   them  all,   about   Right  Field  is 

slinking  — 

A  Sin  that 's  nipped  too  many  lives  ever  to  be  caught  blinking. 
The  Recording  Angel  scores  the  game;  the  Guardian  Angel 

coaches  — 


94  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

And  coaches  well,  but  always  on  his  rights  each  Sin  encroaches 

The  wickedest  lot,  right  on  the  spot,  you  ever  saw  of  kickers, 
And  every  one  profane,  tobacco-using,  full  of  liquors; 
Yet  the  best  to  play,  and  play  to  win,  and  ne'er  a  one  afraid  is, 
And  when  he  puts  a  Christian  out  he  sends  him  straight  to 

Hades. 
And  it 's  you  at  bat,  and  you  on  deck,  and  you  loud  with  the 

rooters, 

Or  else  you  're  eggshelled  by  these  diabolical  freebooters; 
Now  there  's  no  man  in  church  to-day  to  whom  this  needs  ex 
panding, 
So  'Onward,  Christian  Soldiers'  sing,  the  congregation  standing." 

The  morn  was  hot,  depressing,  and  the  ordinary  sermon 

Would  have  set  some  sinners  snoring,  leaving  Parson  dis 
appointed; 
But  to-day  each  brother,  with  his  eyes  bright  as  the  dews  of 

Hermon, 

Felt  of  his  muscle  on  the  sly  —  and  felt  like  God's  anointed! 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 

THE  GLORIOUS  TOUCHDOWN 

Published  in  THE  SOUVENIR,  Purdue  University,  1890. 

WHEN  the  crisp  autumnal  zephyrs  whistle  through  the  leafless 
trees; 

When  croquet  is  a  sweet  regret  and  tennis  is  non  est; 
When  the  baseball  player  stays  indoors  for  fear  that  he  will  freeze 

And  the  picnic  trousers  get  a  needed  rest; 
When  Mackinaws  and  yellow  shoes  are  packed  away  with  care, 

And  the  summer  sash  becomes  a  muffler  gay, 
Then  the  college  football  specialist  emerges  from  his  lair, 

And  buckles  up  his  armor  for  the  fray. 

He  rises  up  at  4  A.M.  and  runs  ten  miles  or  more; 

A  plunge  in  icy  water  then  before  he  eats  a  bite; 
He  breakfasts  on  raw  steak  and  toast,  and  quaffs  a  pint  of  gore 

And  works  with  clubs  and  dumb-bells  until  night. 
He  dare  not  smoke  a  cigarette  nor  touch  his  meerschaum  brown, 

And  every  night  at  eight  o'clock  he  tumbles  into  bed. 
No  more  with  boon  companions  does  he  paint  the  college  town, 

And  fill  the  peaceful  residents  with  dread. 

But  out  of  all  these  hardships  and  this  abstinence  unwilling, 
There  comes  a  day  of  triumph  for  the  Rugby  devotee, 

When  on  the  frozen  battlefield,  unheeding  winds  so  chilling, 
He  scrimmages  and  tackles  in  the  hope  of  victory. 


SPORT    IN    THE    OPEN  95 

What  though  he  grinds  his  features  to  a  pulp  so  raw  and  gory, 
While  the  strong  and  beefy  opponents  are  seated  on  his  frame? 

What  though  he  never  lives  to  tell  his  children  of  the  story? 
Though  death  comes  with  the  victory,   the  team  must  win 
the  game. 

The  college  yell  inspires  him  still,  and  though  each  bone  is  aching, 

And  though  the  hazy  landscape  swims  before  his  blinded  eyes, 
The  precious  spheroid  comes  his  way  and  through  the  rush  line 
breaking, 

He  's  down  within  the  goal   line,  and  the  team  has  won  the 

prize. 
A  ton  or  more  of  writhing  flesh  with  him  is  mixed  together, 

His  leg  is  wrapped  around  his  neck,  four  teeth  cannot  be  found; 
But  he  has  passed  into  the  goal  and  hangs  on  to  the  leather; 

He  is  the  hero  of  the  day  —  he  's  carried  from  the  ground. 

With  proper  care  and  nursing  he  will  soon  return  to  college; 

A  compound  fracture  of  the  leg,  some  cuts,  a  broken  nose; 
In  the  meantime  he  is  not  acquiring  literary  knowledge, 

And  the  family  physician  to  his  bedside  daily  goes. 
When  he  resumes  his  studies  he  '11  recite  each  day  at  dinner, 

All  the  more  exciting  features  of  the  memorable  game; 
Next  year,  if  he  's  recovered,  he  will  make  the  team  a  winner 

By  going  into  training  —  the  result  will  be  the  same. 

GEORGE  ADE. 
REGATTA 

WE  have  heard  the  roll  of  the  signal-gun!  — 
Our  fleet  is  off  in  the  race  for  a  run 
With  the  gulls  and  the  wind  and  the  wave! 
The  surf-nymphs  rave 

At  the  prow  and  beckon  us  on  — 

On  to  the  sea  and  the  echoing  buoy  ! 

No  landsman's  coward  "Ahoy" 

We  '11  heed.     We  're  off,  and  the  mate  is  Joy! 

The  halyards  hiss  and  the  sheets 
Outflate.     The  straining  spar  competes 
With  the  helmsman's  ardor  lent 
To  the  tug  of  the  gale  unspent! 

The  deck  is  a  desert,  fore  and  aft, 
And  the  sailor's  will  is  the  will  of  the  craft. 
Lie  low!     Sweep  on!  while  high  is  the  sun! 
We  ;ve  heard  our  signal-gun! 

IVAN  SWIFT. 


96  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

VIVE  LE  ROI! 

ONE  in  a  long  dark  pigtail  cries, 

"Now  to  your  places  all." 
I  hang  my  head;  indeed  I  dread 

This  game  of  basket  ball. 

The  ball  it  mounts  up  to  the  skies, 

We  watch  its  sickening  fall; 
Wildly  we  rush,  each  other  push, 

And  on  the  ground  we  sprawl. 

They  jump  upon  us  where  we  lie, 

They  kick  us  where  we  fall; 
With  groan  of  pain,  we  play  again 

The  noble  game  of  basket  ball. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  GLORY  OF  THE  GAME 

A  SONG  to  the  football  players; 

A  song  to  the  men  of  might; 
To  the  winner  or  loser  I  sing  it  — 

Of  the  battle  that  each  must  fight. 

'T  is  the  battle  of  brain  and  muscle,  the  contest  of  strength  and 

skill; 

The  impact  of  brawn  and  bulldog,  the  guidance  of  iron  will; 
The  rush  and  the  counter-movement,  the  quickness  of  mind 

and  eye; 
The  crash  in  the  centre  scrimmage,  that  causes  the  blood  to 

fly 
Through  the  veins  of  the  many  watchers,  as  the  battle  is  gained 

or  lost; 
'Tis  the  winning  the  thing  they  strive  for,  whatever  may  be  the 

cost. 
'Tis  the  shout  of  the  gazing  thousands,  the  ringing  of  mighty 

cheers, 
As  the  roars  of  the  sides  commingle,  to  sound  like  the  sea  m 

your  ears; 
While  the  floating  colors  of  this  crowd  wave  greeting  in  sweeping 

fold, 

To  be  answered  in  kind  by  the  other,  whose  hues  make  its  par 
tisans  bold; 
'Tis  the  screech  and  the  blare  of  the  trumpets,  as  they  add  to 

the  hideous  din, 
And  the  cries  of  the  rival  factions  as  they  volley:  "We  win! 

We  win!" 


SPORTINTHEOPEN  97 

'Tis  the  dash  of  the  long-haired  player,  as  he  rushes  adown  the 

field; 

The  snap  of  the  interference,  the  forces  that  make  him  yield; 
The  down  and  the  wedge  and  the  end  play,  the  puzzles  that  all 

must  know; 
And  the  varying  tide  of  the  contest,  as  the  victories  come  and 

go; 

'Tis  the  score  standing  even  to  even,  and  the  weight  of  the  solid 

whole, 
The  grasp  of  the  final  touchdown,  the  kick  of  the  winning  goal  — 

Then,  winner  or  loser,  here  's  to  him! 

For,  winner  or  loser,  who  cares? 
Here  's  hurrah  for  the  football  player, 

And  the  honors  and  glories  he  bears! 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  CLINE 

THE  SONG  OF   THE  LIGHT  CANOE 

WHEN  the  dew  is  fresh  and  the  grasses  wet 

And  the  breeze  is  rippling  bright, 
I  shove  from  the  shore  without  an  oar 

In  the  gray  of  the  morning  light. 

And  my  heart  leaps  up  at  the  paddle  flash 

As  my  boat  leaps  on  its  way, 
And  a  song  wells  out  as  I  look  about 

On  the  sweetness  of  the  day. 

When  the  river  rests  and  the  ripples  sleep 

And  the  hills  are  tinged  with  red, 
I  sail  the  sky  that  has  fallen  from  high 

On  the  shining  river-bed. 

And  my  soul  drinks  deep  of  the  evening  calm 

As  the  ends  of  my  paddle  play, 
And  a  song  breathes  soft  to  the  sky  aloft 

In  the  hush  of  the  fading  day: 

Oh,  smooth  and  free  is  the  boat  for  me 

That  slides  with  a  noiseless  wake, 
Like  a  bird's  free  flight  through  the  liquid  light 

Or  a  swan's  through  the  sky-filled  lake; 
And  the  paddle-flash  with  never  a  plash, 

As  the  day  fades  from  my  eyes, 
Is  sweet  as  a  star  that  gleams  afar 

When  the  flush  of  the  sunset  dies. 

HORACE  SPENCER  FISKE. 


98  .       THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

WITH  GLEAMING  SAIL 

SPEEDING  before  the  gale 

Lightly  with  gleaming  sail, 
Gaily  the  little  boat  skims  o'er  the  deep; 

Strikes  she  the  waves  abreast, 

Leaping  from  crest  to  crest, 
Bounding  along  with  a  rhythmical  sweep. 

White-caps  in  firefly  play 

Spangle  the  sparkling  bay 
Streaked  with  long  paths  of  smooth  green,  starred  with  foam. 

Clouds  that  in  squadrons  white 

Rush  on  in  boisterous  flight, 
Hide  the  sun's  rays  and  the  heavens'  blue  dome. 

Waves  are  a-dashing  in, 

Spray  is  a-splashing  in, 
Cooling  hot  cheeks  with  a  spattering  mist. 

The  wind  with  its  thousand  hands 

Catches  soft  hair  in  strands, 
Tossing  and  tangling  —  't  is  vain  to  resist. 

Now  as  the  breezes  blow, 

Bends  the  boat  starboard,  low, 
Cutting  a  gurgling  furrow  of  green. 

Hear  the  waves  strike  her  prow, 

Thudding  and  splashing  now, 
Rev'ling  like  mischievous  spirits  unseen. 

What  is  all  trouble  worth? 

Is  there  a  care  on  earth? 
Not  while  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  at  play! 

Speeding  before  the  gale 

Lightly  with  gleaming  sail, 
Who  would  be  other  than  gayest  of  gay? 

EVELYN  GAIL  GARDINER. 

SAILING 

SWIFTLY  cutting  through  the  water, 
Falling  spray  on  either  side, 

Coyly  dipping, 

Rising,  skipping, 
Borne  along  by  wind  and  tide, 
Merrily  my  boat  doth  glide. 


SPORTINTHEOPEN  99 

Oh,  the  sunlight,  how  it  flickers, 
Showering  diamonds  on  the  way! 

Madly  dancing, 

Shining,  glancing, 
Slyly  beckoning,  come  and  play, 
Be,  like  us,  bright,  free,  and  gay. 

And  I  sing  a  song  for  gladness, 
Send  it  echoing  toward  the  sea; 

I  am  happy, 

Happy,  happy! 

Blow  ye  winds!     Blow  joyfully, 
Nor  sigh;  but  sing  and  laugh  with  me. 

DOROTHY  ALLEN. 

BETH-EL 

LOINWISE  upgirded,  with  a  leathern  clout, 
All  stript  and  weaponless,  behold  him  go 
Over  the  barrier,  vaulting,  fit  for  his  foe, 

A  Man,  unartificed,  wide-stanced,  and  stout. 

He  breathes  him,  for  the  Champion's  coming  out: 
Shrill  sounds  the  signal :  Springs  he  like  a  bow 
Scorning  the  arrow:  See,  his  hold  is  low: 

Like  Death  his  sinews  grip:  His  is  the  bout! 

Thus,  every  man  must  do  his  fall  with  Fate  — 
Naked,  unarmed,  unchampioned,  alone, 

The  odds  unweighed,  the  issue  unforetold  : 
Only  for  him  doth  Victory's  paean  wait, 
Who,  in  that  day,  shall  marshal  as  his  own 
All  Valhall's  virtue  waxed  a  thousandfold. 

Louis  ALBERT  LAMB. 

OLYMPIAN  VICTORS 

I  STOOD  on  the  slope  of  Kronos  gray,  above  the  Olympian  plain, 
Where  swift  Alpheus  still  pursues  his  vanishing  love  in  vain, 
And  wondered  deep  at  the  picture  rare  revealed  by  the  German 

spade  — 
A  picture  aglow  on  history's  page  with  colors  that  never  fade. 

For  I  saw  below  me  the  Stadium,  alive  with  flying  feet, 
And  banked  humanity  gazing  hard  at  the  naked  runners  fleet; 
And  every  city's  son  at  prayer  that  his  own  shall  win  the  race, 
While   a   lifetime's   ambition  flushes  warm  on  every  athlete's 
face. 


100  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

And  off  toward  the  curve  of  the  Cladeus,  in.  the  sacred  Altis 
walls, 

Rose  the  pillars  of  that  temple  vast  whose  god  forever  calls 

The  victor  to  bend  at  his  throne,  and  be  crowned  with  Her 
cules'  olive  bough, 

And  go  forth  with  the  fame  of  his  glory  bound  about  his  leafy 
brow. 

And  then,  methought,  amid  the  throng  the  gray  Herodotus  read, 
As  young  Thucydides  followed  rapt  his  history's  golden  thread; 
And  soft  in  the  temple's  shadow  the  high-browed  Plato  walked, 
While  girt  with  a  wondering  multitude  the  sovereign  Socrates 
talked. 

Then  slow  past  my  eye  through  the  Altis  a  stately  procession 

moved, 
With  the  psalm  of  the  victor  leading  on  the  athletes  that  stood 

approved  — 

Up  the  steps  of  the  temple  and  on  to  the  feet  of  Zeus, 
Where  the  purpled  judges  placed  the  crowns  Athena  alone  can 

produce. 

And  up   from  the   free-born   races,  the   lovers  of  beauty  and 

strength, 
From  the  trembling  western  river  through  the  Altis'   sacred 

length, 

A  tide  of  resounding  plaudits  swelled  full  to  old  Kronos'  feet 
And  played  in  the  porch  of  Echo  with  a  murmur  long  and  sweet. 

HORACE  SPENCER  FISKE. 

THE  SLUGGER'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  WAR  CLUB 

FAREWELL,  good  old  pal  of  the  national  pastime, 

From  now  on  we  travel  our  separate  ways; 
We  've  been  on  the  field  hand  in  hand  for  the  last  time 

And  won  our  last  volley  of  cheers  and  of  praise. 
The  ties  that  have  bound  us  together  are  severed, 

Who  knows  what  the  Fates  for  the  future  portend? 
At  all  times  to  do  our  best  we  have  endeavored, 

We  've  grown  old  together,  and  now  comes  the  end. 

How  happy  we  were  and  how  sad  is  the  story 

That  brings  our  companionship  now  to  a  close! 
How  faithfully  you  have  worked,  winning  a  glory 

For  one  who  henceforth  as  a  has-been  must  pose! 
From  minor  to  major,  then  back  to  the  minor, 

And  finally  out  altogether,  you  've  stuck. 
Responding  to  many  a  safety  and  liner 

Until  —  well,  I  grew  as  slow  as  a  truck. 


S  P  O  R  T   I  N   T  H  E   O  V  E  N  :  -?,0'l 

And  all  the  old  friends  that  we  laughed  with  and  chaffed  with 

Have  journeyed  before  us  —  some  here  and  some  there; 
And  all  the  staunch  rooters  we  loved  and  went  daft  with 

Whenever  we  boosted  a  pitcher  in  air; 
And  all  the  great  games  we  have  pickled  and  salted 

Have  long  been  forgotten  as  feats  of  a  day; 
And  though  we  attained  a  place  truly  exalted, 

Old  age  came  along  and  has  stowed  us  away. 

No  more,  bat  of  mine,  shall  we  wallop  a  single, 

No  more  shall  our  prowess  result  in  a  run; 
No  more  shall  the  yells  of  the  fans  set  a-tingle 

Our  blood;  for  our  days  on  the  diamond  are  done. 
So  fare  thee  well,  pal  of  the  sunshiny  weather, 

We  've  won  our  last  volley  of  cheers  and  of  praise; 
We  've  romped  o'er  the  field  for  the  last  time  together, 

And  now  we  must  travel  our  separate  ways. 

C.    P.    MCDONALD. 

THE  SKI-RUNNER 

ABOVE  you  burns  a  molten-copper  sun, 

Before  you  hangs  the  imminent  abyss, 

Flaring  in  white,  —  a  desperate  game  to  run, 

This  frozen  speedway  to  the  deeps  of  Dis! 

Now  bend  your  heart  and  foot  and  spirit  straight, 

That  none  may  shrink, 

Then  down,  down,  down  the  eagle  takes  his  flight! 

Sailing  an  instant  on  the  wings  of  Fate, 

An  aeon  poising  on  the  utter  brink,  — 

Then  out!  into  a  wilderness  of  light! 

ANONYMOUS. 

A   BALLADE  OF   THE  GAME 

TIER  upon  tier,  through  the  stands  are  strown 

Faces  fervid  and  faces  fair  — 
Banners  aloft  in  the  breezes  blown, 

Waving  ribbons  and  wayward  hair, 

Flushes  the  West  with  a  crimson  flare; 
Glimmers  the  East  like  a  summer  sky. 

Thunder  of  throngs  in  the  frosty  air  — 
Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory! 

Joy  of  battle  and  brawn  of  stone  — 

Pride  of  pain  in  the  deed  they  dare  — 
Yard  by  yard  they  are  struggling  on, 

Backward  the  Crimson  they  bend  and  bear; 

Met  with  the  strain  of  a  strong  despair, 


•102  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Into  the  strife  again,  do  or  die, 

Till  the  shouts  to  tatters  the  stillness  tear  — 
Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory! 

Two  long  years  o'er  our  flag  have  flown  — 

Years  of  darkness  and  dismal  care; 
Now  the  time  of  our  time  has  known  — 

One  short  day  shall  our  fate  declare. 

Each  in  our  sorrow  has  borne  a  share, 
Each  has  a  share  in  the  glad  loud  cry, 

Shaking  the  skies  with  a  trumpet-blare  — 
Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory. 

L'  Envoi 

Queen  of  Violets,  reigning  there  — 

Spirit  of  strength  in  a  violet  eye  — 
Lend  us  the  power  of  thy  whispered  prayer: 

"Yale,  old  Yale,  and  a  victory!" 

ANONYMOUS. 


Part 

THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS 


LOVE  AND  A  DAY 

IN  girandoles  of  gladioles 

The  day  had  kindled  flame; 
And  Heaven  a  door  of  gold  and  pearl 
Unclosed  when  Morning  —  like  a  girl, 
A  red  rose  twisted  in  a  curl  — 

Down  sapphire  stairways  came. 
Said  I  to  Love:  "What  must  I  do? 
What  shall  I  do?     What  can  I  do ?" 
Said  I  to  Love :  "  What  must  I  do? 

All  on  a  summer's  morning" 

Said  Love  to  me:  "Go  woo,  go  woo" 

Said  Love  to  me:  "Go  woo, 
If  she  be  milking,  follow,  01 
And  in  the  clover  hollow,  01 
While  through  the  dew  the  bells  clang  clear, 
Just  whisper  it  into  her  ear, 

All  on  a  summer's  morning." 

MADISON  CAWEIN. 


THE    GENTLER    EMOTIONS 


AFTERGLOW 

I  PRAY  that  Time  full  many  years  may  bring 
And  round  about  us  heap  his  flowers  and  snow, 
That  we  adown  the  western  slope  may  go 

Clasped  hand  in  hand,  as  in  that  joyous  spring 

When  first  together  we  did  learn  to  sing 
The  songs  of  youth  beside  the  river's  flow; 
The  songs  our  hearts  unto  the  end  shall  know, 

If  now  no  more  the  woodlands  with  them  ring. 

And  we  shall  sit  on  many  a  golden  eve 
Beside  the  fire  and  dream  of  other  days 

When  we  were  young,  and  laugh  a  wrinkled  laugh, 

Nor  mourn  nor  sigh  that  loud  the  winds  do  grieve, 
For  thou  shalt  more  than  multiply  the  Mays, 

And  I  the  long  Decembers  count  by  half. 

CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN. 

TO  A   PAIR  OF  LOVERS 

IF  you  only  love  each  other, 
Never  will  your  love  be  blessed. 

Those  who  love  the  world  together 
Love  each  other  best. 

ANONYMOUS. 
CUPID  —  HIS  MARK 

SHE  had  a  dimple  in  her  chin  — 

I  read  the  sign  like  any  sage, 
And  knew  where  Cupid's  lips  had  been  — 

She  had  a  dimple  in  her  chin. 
To  follow  suit  is  scarce  a  sin. 

Who  wins  a  kiss  may  laugh  at  rage. 
She  had  a  dimple  in  her  chin  — 

Ah,  Madame  Grundy  —  turn  the  page! 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON. 
105 


106  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

RECIPROCITY 

WITH  the  May  blossoms,  cheery  and  bold, 

Came  the  oriole's  song  to  his  mate; 

And  he  sang  to  her  early  and  late 
The  one  theme  that  can  never  grow  old; 

While  after-notes  too  eager  to  wait, 

All  regardless  of  measure  and  date, 
Were  at  any  odd  season  outrolled, 
When  she  thought  his  whole  story  was  told. 

Serene  in  her  golden-hued  gown  sat  she, 

With  no  sign  of  assent  or  demur 

To  the  rhapsodies  showered  upon  her 
By  the  flamelet  aloft  in  the  tree. 

That  her  love  was  awake  and  astir 

With  his  jubilant  music  and  whir, 
She  could  trust  such  a  wooer  to  see. 
"Nothing  sweeter  than  silence,"  sang  he. 

D.  H.  INGHAM. 

WEARYIN'   FOR   YOU 

JES'  a-wearyin'  for  you  — 
All  the  time  a-feelin'  blue; 
Wishin'  for  you  —  wonderin'  when 
You  '11  be  comin'  home  agen. 
Restless  —  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Jes'  a-wearyin'  for  you. 

Room  'a  so  lonesome  with  your  chair 
Empty  by  the  fireplace  there; 
Jes'  can't  stand  the  sight  of  it! 
Go  outdoors  and  roam  a  bit; 
But  the  woods  is  lonesome,  too  — 
Jes'  a-wearyin'  for  you! 

Comes  the  wind,  with  soft  caress, 
Like  the  rustlin'  of  your  dress; 
Blossoms  fallin'  to  the  ground 
Softly,  like  your  footsteps  sound; 
Violets  like  your  eyes  so  blue  — 
Jes'  a-wearyin'  for  you! 

Momin'  comes;  the  birds  awake; 
Use'  to  sing  so  for  your  sake! 
But  there  's  sadness  in  the  notes 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  107 

That  come  trillin'  from  their  throats; 
Seems  to  feel  your  absence,  too  — 
Jes'  a-wearyin'  for  you! 

!>(!/. 

Evenin'  comes;  I  miss  you  more 

When  the  dark  glooms  in  the  door; 

Seems  jes'  like  you  orter  be 

There  to  open  it  for  me! 

Latch  goes  tinklin' ;  thrills  me  through, 

Sets  me  wearyin'  for  you! 

Jes'  a-wearyin'  for  you  — 
All  the  time  a-feelin'  blue; 
Wishin'  for  you  —  wonderin'  when 
You  '11  be  comin'  home  agen. 
Restless  —  don't  know  what  to  do  — 
Jes'  a-wearyin'  for  you! 

FRANK  L.  STANTON. 

I  KNOW  THE  WAY  OF  THE  WILD  BLUSH  ROSE 

I  KNOW  the  way  of  the  wild  blush  rose 
That  blooms  in  the  coppice  there  — 
The  wild  blush  rose  whose  beauty  glows 
.   In  the  languid  summer  air. 
For,  oh,  she  loves  to  be  wooed  and  won, 
And  she  opes  her  heart  to  the  ardent  sun; 
And  she  tells  her  love  while  yet  she  may, 
For  love  doth  last  but  a  summer's  day. 

I  know  the  way  of  the  nightingale 

In  the  dark  green  ilex  tree. 
For  each  pure  note  from  her  pulsing  throat 

Breathes  love's  wild  ecstasy. 
She  sings  that  her  listening  swain  may  know 
The  tender  rapture  that  moves  her  so. 
For  soon,  too  soon,  the  leaf  grows  sere 
And  love  will  pass  with  the  passing  year. 

But  who  can  know  the  way  of  a  maid 

When  her  heart  is  sweetly  thrilled? 
Deep  down  in  her  eyes  the  secret  lies 

And  the  song  on  her  lips  is  stilled. 
But  locked  in  love's  first  dear  embrace, 
A  new  light  shines  on  her  upturned  face; 
There  's  a  song  in  her  breast  that  shall  ever  stay, 
For  the  love  of  a  maid  is  for  aye  and  aye! 

WILLARD  EMERSON  KEYES. 


108  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

WANDERLUST 

BEYOND  the  East  the  sunrise,  beyond  the  West  the  sea, 
And  East  and  West  the  wanderlust  that  will  not  let  me  be; 
It  works  in  me  like  madness,  dear,  to  bid  me  say  good-bye ! 
For  the  seas  call  and  the  stars  call,  and  oh,  the  call  of  the  sky! 

I  know  not  where  the  white  road  runs,  nor  what  the  blue  hills 

are, 

But  man  can  have  the  sun  for  friend,  and  for  his  guide  a  star; 
And  there  's  no  end  of  voyaging  when  once  the  voice  is  heard, 
For  the  river  calls  and  the  road  calls,  and  oh,  the  call  of  a  bird! 

Yonder  the  long  horizon  lies,  and  there  by  night  and  day 
The  old  ships  draw  to  home  again,  the  young  ships  sail  away; 
And  come  I  may,  but  go  I  must,  and  if  men  ask  you  why, 
You  may  put  the  blame  on  the  stars  and  the  sun  and  the  white 
road  and  the  sky! 

GERALD  GOULD. 

LOVE'S   TELEPATHY 

OH,  you  are  near,  my  love,  so  near  to-night, 

That  sitting  in  the  dusk  and  silence  here 
With  miles  between  I  feel  your  spirit's  might  — 

I  know  your  heart's  whole  message  to  me,  dear! 

The  dark  is  golden  with  you  —  music  filled. 

My  reaching  thoughts  have  drawn  you  —  you  are  mine! 
So  near  you  are  —  I  feel  your  touch  —  love  thrilled  — 

The  magic  of  you  makes  the  moments  wine. 

Love  —  you  are  here!     Your  arms  about  me  fold  — 

Oh,  blinding  rapture  of  this  certainty  — 
Oh,  storm  of  stars  —  oh,  universe  of  gold  — 

Wherein  I  love  my  love  and  he  loves  me! 

ANGELA  MORGAN. 

THE  PRIME  OF  LIFE 

JUST  as  I  thought  I  was  growing  old, 

Ready  to  sit  in  my  easy  chair, 
To  watch  the  world  with  a  heart  grown  cold, 

And  smile  at  folly  I  would  not  share, 

Rose  came  by  with  a  smile  for  me, 

And  I  am  thinking  that  forty  year 
Is  n't  the  age  that  it  seems  to  be 

When  two  pretty  brown  eyes  are  near. 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  109 

Bless  me,  of  life  it  is  just  the  prime! 

A  fact  that  I  hope  she  will  understand, 
And  forty  year  is  a  perfect  rhyme 

To  dark  brown  eyes  and  a  pretty  hand. 

These  gray  hairs  are  by  chance,  you  see  — 

Boys  are  sometimes  gray  I  am  told; 
Rose  came  by  with  a  smile  for  me, 

Just  as  I  thought  I  was  growing  old. 

WALTER  LEARNED. 

A   VALENTINE 

I  HOLD  no  viol  or  ancient  lute 

To  make  sweet  music  to  thy  praise, 
But,  bending,  plead  a  lover's  suit 
Too  deep  for  words,  with  music  mute 

In  lieu  of  lover's  lays. 
I  only  ask  wilt  thou  be  mine 

And  take  mine  heart  for  recompense, 
Invoking  through  Saint  Valentine 
The  worship  at  thy  beauty's  shrine 

With  garlanded  incense? 

JOSEPH  TWTMAN. 

LOVE,    YOUTH,  SONG 

IT  was  a  song  of  lustihood 
I  sang  in  youth, 

My  happy  Maytime, 
As  hand  in  hand  she  with  me  stood, 
As  true  as  truth 

Through  Love's  own  playtime; 
The  world  and  we  in  lustihood. 

How  young  she  was!     How  she  was  fair, 
With  voice  as  sweet 

As  any  starling! 

I  close  my  eyes  and  see  her  there, 
The  song  repeat: 

Ah,  she  was  darling, 
And  life  was  love,  and  youth  was  fair! 

We  parted,  as  we  met,  with  smiles; 
She  that  was  mine 

Has  not  forgotten; 
But  oh,  how  many  weary  miles 
Of  days  a-line 

Has  Time  begotten 
Since  Youth  and  Love  first  met  with  smiles! 


110  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Now  in  the  lives  where  Spring  once  shone 
Sown  is  the  seed 

Of  branching  sorrow, 
And  gray  my  locks,  the  sun  has  gone. 
How  small  the  need 
Of  Life  to  sorrow 
When  Love  and  Youth  and  Song  were  one! 

JOHN  JARVIS  HOLDEN. 

BELOVED 

Kiss  me,  beloved! 

Your  loving  arms  about  me  close, 

Lips  on  lips, 
As  the  happy  bee  from  heart  of  the  rose 

Nectar  sips! 
Press  me,  closer,  loving  arm, 

To  his  breast, 
Safely  hid  from  grief  and  harm 

To  rest,  rest  — 
Kiss  me,  beloved! 

As  you  clasp  these  hands  of  mine, 

I  whisper  this, 
"Hands,  lips,  tresses,  all  are  thine, 

To  love  and  kiss." 
Ah,  time  goes  on  hastening  wings, 

Fast,  too  fast; 
Though  he  steals  all  other  things, 

Love  will  last  — 
Kiss  me,  beloved! 

May  we  ever  be  side  by  side, 

Loving  still, 
Two  full  lives  in  love  allied, 

One  heart,  one  will! 
May  love  make  sweet  the  hurrying  years, 

Heart  of  my  heart, 
And  your  kisses  ever  banish  fears 

Till  death  us  part. 
Kiss  me,  beloved! 

Hush,  speak  not!  't  is  love's  sweet  hour 

All  else  above; 
And  you  are  the  bee  and  I  the  flower. 

Kiss  me,  love! 

MABEL  G.  ANDERSON. 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  111 

TO  GOD  AND  IRELAND   TRUE 

I  SIT  beside  my  darling's  grave, 

Who  in  the  prison  died, 
And  though  my  tears  fall  thick  and  fast 

I  think  of  him  with  pride : 
Ay,  softly  fall  my  tears  like  dew, 
For  one  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

"I  love  my  God  o'er  all,"  he  said, 

'  'And  then  I  love  my  land, 
And  next  I  love  my  Lily  sweet, 

Who  pledged  me  her  white  hand: 
To  each  —  to  all  —  I  'm  ever  true, 
To  God,  to  Ireland,  and  to  you." 

No  tender  nurse  his  hard  bed  smoothed 

Or  softly  raised  his  head; 
He  fell  asleep  and  woke  in  Heaven 

Ere  I  knew  he  was  dead; 
Yet  why  should  I  my  darling  rue? 
He  was  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

Oh,  't  is  a  glorious  memory! 

I  'm  prouder  than  a  queen, 
To  sit  beside  my  hero's  grave 

And  think  on  what  has  been; 
And,  O  my  darling,  I  am  true 
To  God  —  to  Ireland  —  and  to  you! 

ELLEN  O'LEARY. 

PROCRASTINATION 

WAIT  not  until  my  eyes  are  dimmed  by  everlasting  night, 
To  speed  the  glance  that  thrills  the  heart  with  ever  radiant  light, 
Nor  wait  until  my  voice  is  mute  and  stilled  forevermore, 
To  lisp  the  word  that  lends  so  much  to  friendship's  cherished 

store. 

Wait  not  until  my  hands  are  cold  and  non-responsive  lie, 
To  stroke  and  soothe  my  troubled  brow  and  calm  the  fretful 

sigh. 

Nor  wait  until  my  lips  are  sealed  and  closed  to  earthly  bliss, 
To  greet  them  with  a  fond  caress  or  e'en  perchance  a  kiss. 
Wait  not  until  my  pulse  has  ceased  to  throb  with  joy  or  fear, 
To  shower  blossoms  on  my  shroud  or  ornament  my  bier. 
For  Now  while  life  is  young  and  sweet,  nor  all  its  lustre  shed, 
Give  me  the  tokens  of  your  love;  and  not  when  I  am  dead. 

GEORGE  W.  MARKENS. 


112  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

TO  MY  FIANCEE 

WHY  do  I  love  you,  dear?     Because 

Your  face  is  wondrous  sweet  and  fair? 
Before  we  marry,  you  would  pause.- 

You  ask,  before  our  lots  we  share: 

Why  do  I  love  you,  dear?     Because 
Your  mind  is  bright  —  your  wit  is  rare. 

Away  with  reasons  and  with  laws! 

This  is  the  answer,  I  declare: 
Why  do  I  love  you,  dear?     Because! 

FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS. 

/ 

BABETTE 

THE  dusk  of  the  night  is  sweet,  Babette, 
And  the  dreams  in  the  twilight  fair  — 

But  sweeter  the  night  when  we  meet,  Babette, 
And  the  twilight  dreams  I  shall  not  forget, 

With  a  rose  in  your  dusky  hair,  Babette, 

With  a  rose  in  your  dusky  hair! 

ANONYMOUS. 

INOPPORTUNE 

He 
Too  brief  her  sun  of  beauty  glows; 

The  bud  with  dews  of  dawn  is  wet, 
Some  later  day  unfolds  the  rose  — 

Not  now,  not  yet! 

She 

Too  late  his  quickening  passions  plead, 
I  may  nor  leave  nor  break  my  vow. 
Too  late!  no  prayer  may  intercede  — 
Not  now,  not  now! 

THOMAS  H.  BRIQGS,  JR. 

I  THINK  OF  THEE 

WHEN  morning's  jewelled  fingers  part 

The  heavy  shades  of  night, 
Waking  the  great  world's  pulsing  heart 

To  beauty,  life,  and  light," 
Beloved  one,  each  gleam  of  gold 
Your  smiling  image  seems  to  hold. 


THE   GENTLER   EMOTIONS  113 

Then  when  gray  evening  flutters  down 

Like  some  soft-breasted  dove, 
When  dusky  night  receives  her  crown 

Of  stars  from  skies  above, 
Beloved  one,  each  glowing  star 
Reflects  your  image  from  afar. 

I  think  of  you  by  night,  by  day, 

As  one  to  me  most  fair; 
If  you  be  near,  if  far  away, 

My  heart  is  with  you  there; 
No  place  has  earth,  no  single  spot, 
Where  you  may  be  and  I  am  not. 

KATE  GOLDSBORO  McDowELL. 

OVER  THE  ROSE-LEAVES,    UNDER  THE  ROSE 

One  thing  is  certain  and  the  rest  is  Lies; 
The  Flower  that  once  has  blown  forever  dies. 

OMAR  KHAYYAM. 

WHY  did  you  say  you  loved  me  then, 

If  this  must  be  the  end? 
Can  so  much  more  than  lover  be 

So  much  less  than  friend? 
You  say  "Suppose  we  had  not  met " 

Beneath  this  Provence  rose: 
Suppose  we  had  not  loved  at  all ! 

Suppose,  dear  heart,  suppose  ? 

Suppose  beside  some  common  road 

There  bloomed  a  common  rose, 
As  this  one  crimsons  all  the  air 

Within  the  garden  close. 
Suppose  you  plucked  it,  passing  by, 

And  spread  its  petals  wide, 
Until  the  sweetness  of  its  heart 

Filled  all  the  country-side. 

Suppose  you  wore  it  on  your  breast 

One  careless  summer  day; 
Suppose  you  kissed  it  once  —  or  twice  — 

To  pass  the  time  away, 
Then  tore  it  slowly  leaf  by  leaf, 

As  I  have  torn  this  rose, 
Until  you  bared  its  very  soul. 

You  would  not  f     Well,  suppose  ! 


114  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Suppose  you  stripped  its  very  soul 

Down  to  life's  golden  core, 
Till  heart  and  life  and  soul  were  yours, 

And  there  was  nothing  more 
A  rose  could  give  to  please  your  sense 

Or  win  a  passing  smile; 
Then  dropped  it  in  the  pathway  —  thus  — 

No  longer  worth  your  while. 

And  then  —  suppose  those  scattered  leaves 

Were  days  we  two  have  shared  — 
You  need  not  say  you  counted  them; 

You  need  not  say  you  cared  — 
Could  all  the  counting,  all  the  care, 

Or  all  my  foolish  pain 
Put  that  one  rose  together,  dear, 

Or  make  it  bloom  again? 

JOHN  BENNETT. 

THE  TABLE  D'HOTE 

;T  is  tune  —  ah  me!  —  to  change  my  coat 
And  sally  forth  for  a  table  d'hote, 
Alone;  although  I'd  love  a  Sally, 
Alas,  there  is  none  in  my  alley. 

Beaux- Arts  —  and  bizarre,  that 's  the  kind 
Of  cafe  that  I  have  in  mind; 
En  avant  —  by  Shank's  cabriolet, 
One  may  meet  Fortune  on  the  way. 

So,  carelessly,  I  pass  along 
Musing,  amid  the  bustling  throng, 
Until  I  reach  the  open  door 
Which  welcomes  me  as  oft  before. 

Here  's  Louis,  with  his  best  salaam: 
"Bon  soir,  monsieur,  et  vous.  madame! 
You  walked,  you  say?     Then  you  will  be  on 
Edge  for  the  Saucisson  de  Lyon?" 

So,  while  the  fair  white  board  is  spread 
With  olives,  radis,  and  French  bread, 
A  swift  gargon,  demure  and  neat, 
Shall  bring  us  Blue  Points,  toute  de  suite, 

And,  gargon,  a  thin  potage  bring  — 
Some  sunshine  bottled  for  a  king: 
A  Queen  shall  christen  it  this  night 
With  the  red  lips  of  love's  delight. 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  115 

A  lobster,  now,  or  else  a  fish, 
Done  a  la  Russe,  in  some  small  dish, 
With  truffles  and  a  mayonnaise  — 
My  love  loved  lobster  in  those  days! 

Id,  garqon  —  an  artichoke, 
Some  reed-birds,  or  a  ruddy  duck 
Done  to  a  turn,  so  that  the  knife 
Is  followed  by  the  stream  of  life. 

The  bottle  's  done?     Woe  worth  the  day 
When  sunshine  slipped  so  fast  away! 
Another  bring  us  —  "Not  too  cold, 
Nor  yet  too  slender,  nor  too  old." 

That  was  the  kind  of  girl  who  stole 
Hearts,  years  ago!     Yes,  escarole, 
And  some  cold  chicken!  sentiment 
And  salad  aye  together  went! 

A  biscuit  now;  a  demi-tasse, 
A  cigarette;  a  parting  glass,  — 
L' addition!     So  from  life  and  light, 
Alas,  we  pass  into  the  night. 

For,  O  fair  Love  that  came  to  me 
Out  of  the  twilight,  I  shall  be 
Alone  for  aye  —  until  thy  hand 
Welcomes  me  into  Shadow  Land! 

JOHN  PAUL  BOCOCK. 

A   GREETING 

To  MY  very  best  friend!  to  you,  dear  friend 

The  very  best  friend  I  know;  — 
Without  stint,  without  end,  my  very  best  friend 
Good  wishes  and  greeting  I  cheerfully  send, 
Young  Eros  for  you,  dear,  will  willingly  lend 

His  arrows  of  gold,  and  bow. 

Young  Eros,  't  is  said,  has  weapons  of  lead  — 

Both  blunt  and  heavy  to  pull  — 
But  his  arrows  of  lead  are  for  love  that  is  dead, 
So  I  covet  a  quiver  of  gold  instead, 
That  love  may  all  over  the  world  be  spread 

Till  every  heart  is  full. 

JOSEPH  TWYMAN. 


116  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

LAST  NIGHT 

LAST  night  where  gladness  reigned  supreme, 

I  saw  thee  standing  fair; 
I  saw  thy  white  arm's  rounded  gleam, 

The  rose  within  thy  hair. 

Proud  knees  bent  low,  the  prize  to  earn 

Fond  lips  with  lips  did  strive, 
Whilst  thou  (large  boon  for  small  return) 

Thy  careless  smile  didst  give. 

Ah!  love,  I  know  't  is  passing  sweet; 

Drink  deep,  the  charm  will  die; 
While  glide  the  hours  on  golden  feet 

Thy  Ganymede  am  I. 

But  come  when  Sorrow  casts  its  shade 

To  arms  that  wait  for  thee; 
Let  others  have  the  smiles  that  fade, 

But  save  thy  tears  for  me. 

WARREN  PEASE. 

LOVE'S  SECRET  NAME 

SIGH  his  name  into  the  night 

With  the  stars  for  company, 
From  thy  lips  't  will  take  fair  flight, 

Doing  thee  no  injury, 
If  by  the  sea  or  trysting-tree 
Thou  breathe  it  in  no  company. 

Whisper  it  from  thy  full  heart, 
Let  none  hear  thy  passion  moan, 

Safe  from  cruel  pang  or  smart, 
To  the  cold  world  unbeknown, 

By  darkling  tree  or  silent  sea, 

With  Love  alone  for  company. 

In  thy  heart  of  hearts  let  sleep 

All  thy  rapture;  and  his  name 
True  in  purity  shall  keep 

All  its  vital  force  and  flame; 
Fickle  speech  and  falsest  jar 
Come  from  lips  that  loudest  are. 

JOHN  ARTHUR  BLAIKIB. 


THE   GENTLER   EMOTIONS  117 

LIKING  AND  LOVING 

POOR  sad  Strephon  'a  been  jilted  by  Phyllis,  the  jade; 
While  Daphne  for  Mopsus  her  love  has  professed. 
Here  the  woodlands  resound  for  the  plaints  of  the  blade, 
While  the  fields  of  the  maiden  in  joy  are  arrayed. 
Till  the  wight  all  forlorn  meets  the  maiden  so  blest: 
He,  "I  like  liking  better;"  she,  "I  love  loving  best." 

With  bold  Mopsus  our  song  is  no  further  concerned; 

But  sad  Strephon  his  plight  by  his  phrase  has  confessed 
(Though  his  life  is  a  husk  since  by  Phyll  he  was  spurned), 
While  the  right  of  dear  Daphne  her  sweet  lips  have  learned: 
For,  note  ye  the  speech  of  the  sad  and  the  blest: 
When  he  likes  liking  better,  she  loves  loving  best! 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 

SPIRIT  BRIDAL 

SHE  sleeps  within  a  sheltered  marbled  close 

Amid  her  quiet  kin  of  yesterday, 
And  all  the  marvel  of  her  beauty's  rose 

Has  vanished  quite  away. 

Far  'neath  an  alien  sky  his  body  lies 

That  was  so  filled  with  blood  of  youthful  pride, 

And  all  unmarked,  unheeded  of  men's  eyes, 
Where  last  he  fought  and  died. 

Yet  who  shall  say  their  spirits  held  not  tryst 

In  unapparent  realms  of  Love's  delight, 
And  that  their  souls,  earth-freed,  clung  not  and  kissed 

Beneath  the  moon  to-night? 

JESSIE  STORRS  FERRIS. 

MY  LOVE  FOR   YOU 

MY  love  for  you  is  such  a  wondrous  thing  — 
I  dare  not  question  how  nor  why  't  was  sent. 

I  only  know  it  bids  my  soul  to  sing  — 
And  so  I  fold  it  close  and  am  content. 

My  love  for  you  makes  all  the  moments  rare 
With  mem'ries  that  are  sweet  as  April  showers; 

I  sense  your  thoughts  —  I  feel  your  tender  care  — 
Like  breath  of  blossoms  blown  across  the  hours. 


118  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

My  love  for  you  is  not  the  swift  display 

Of  mad  infatuation  —  not  the  flame 
That  leaps  to  life  and  dies  within  a  day  — 

Ah,  such  were  never  worthy  of  the  name! 

My  love  for  you  —  doubt  not  —  is  strong  and  sure  — 
How  could  I  give  a  fickle  love  to  you? 

Your  own  great  heart  so  steadfast,  brave,  and  true, 
Compels  a  love  that  ever  must  be  true. 

ANGELA  MORGAN. 

A   REMINISCENCE 

'T  WAS  long  ago  —  but  I  remember  — 

I  met  a  maiden,  quite  by  chance; 
A  maid  I  judged  as  pretty,  tender, 

And  much  inclined  to  cheap  romance. 
And  so  I  called,  asked  her  politely, 

If  she  would  to  a  German  go, 
Expecting  —  for  she  knew  me  slightly, 

Or  not  at  all  —  she  'd  answer  no; 
But  who  knows  thoughts  in  women  hid? 
She  consented  —  went,  sir  —  gad,  she  did! 

A  very  little  while  thereafter 

A  letter  wrote  I,  all  in  jest, 
A  note,  conceived  in  boyish  laughter  — 

It  surely  's  never  marred  my  rest. 
I  don't  know  why  a  lawyer  fellow, 

All  briefless  then,  and  scant  of  means, 
Should  try  to  raise  a  feeling  mellow 

In  silly  school  girl  yet  in  teens. 
Ah,  who  knows  thoughts  in  women  hid? 
She  corresponded  —  gad,  she  did! 

She  answered  me  —  I  'd  several  dozens 

Or  more  of  letters  from  her  hand  — 
I  saw  her  four  times  at  her  cousin's, 

I  met  her  once,  as  per  demand. 
Her  writing  soon  grew  very  eager; 

I  humored  her  —  what  man  would  not? 
Her  hints  were  anything  but  meagre, 

And  so  —  I  thought  I  had  to  pop; 
But  who  knows  thoughts  in  women  hid? 
She  refused  me  flat,  sir  —  gad,  she  did! 

It  did  not  leave  me  broken-hearted; 

I'd  held  (and  think  I  kissed)  her  hand  — 
'T  was  somewhat  soiled  —  and,  when  we  parted, 


THE   GENTLER   EMOTIONS  119 

We  met  again  by  her  command. 
But  at  that  meeting  —  you  can't  guess  it, 

For  but  a  week  had  intervened  — 
She  sat  by  me  —  must  I  confess  it? 

She  kissed  me,  she  upon  me  leaned. 
Lord,  who  knows  thoughts  in  women  hid? 
She  proposed  to  me,  sir  —  gad,  she  did! 

And  thereupon,  like  all  before  us, 

We  had  a  frightful  dose  of  spoons. 
Just  when  she  thought  our  hearts  in  chorus, 

She  went  away  for  some  two  moons. 
That  summer  through,  she,  at  the  seashore, 

Had  flirted,  danced,  raised  merry  Ned; 
But  just  when  I  was  sure  I  'd  see  more 

In  any  other  girl  to  wed  — 
Do  you  know  thoughts  in  women  hid? 
She  cut  me  dead,  sir  —  gad,  she  did! 


I've  heard  from  her,  but  not  directly; 

Within  the  past  three  years  or  so. 
I  'm  sure  't  was  told  me  quite  correctly  — 

She  had  n't  much  good  sense,  you  know. 
She  'd  nothing  much  but  passion,  money, 

A  horrid  temper  —  easy  sketch. 
Her  father  sold  her  (thought  it  funny), 

An  oldster  took  her  'nd  what  she  'd  fetch. 
But  who  knows  thoughts  in  women  hid? 
She  left  him  too,  sir  —  gad,  she  did! 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 

"OH,  SEE  HOW  THICK!" 

OH,  see  how  thick  the  goldcup  flowers 

Are  lying  in  field  and  lane, 
With  dandelions  to  tell  the  hours 

That  never  are  told  again. 
Oh  may  I  squire  you  round  the  meads 

And  pick  you  posies  gay? 
—  'T  will  do  no  harm  to  take  my  arm. 

"You  may,  young  man,  you  may." 

Ah,  spring  was  sent  for  lass  and  lad, 

'T  is  now  the  blood  runs  gold, 
And  man  and  maid  had  best  be  glad 

Before  the  world  is  old. 


120  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

What  flowers  to-day  may  flower  to-morrow, 
But  never  as  good  as  new. 

—  Suppose  I  wound  my  arm  right  round  — 
"'T  is  true,  young  man,  't  is  true." 

Some  lads  there  are,  't  is  shame  to  say, 

That  only  court  to  thieve, 
And  once  they  bear  the  bloom  away 

'T  is  little  enough  they  leave. 
Then  keep  your  heart  for  men  like  me 

And  safe  from  trustless  chaps. 
My  love  is  true  and  all  for  you. 

"Perhaps,  young  man,  perhaps." 

Oh,  look  in  my  eyes  then,  can  you  doubt? 

—  Why,  't  is  a  mile  from  town. 
How  green  the  grass  is  all  about! 

We  might  as  well  sit  down. 

—  Ah,  life,  what  is  it  but  a  flower? 
Why  must  true  lovers  sigh? 

Be  kind,  have  pity,  my  own,  my  pretty,  — 
"Good-bye,  young  man,  good-bye." 

ALFRED  EDWARD  HOUSMAN. 

A   BORDER  AFFAIR 

SPANISH  is  the  lovin'  tongue, 

Soft  as  music,  light  as  spray; 
JT  was  a  girl  I  learnt  it  from 

Livin'  down  Sonora  way. 
I  don't  look  much  like  a  lover, 
Yet  I  say  her  love-words  over 
Often  when  I  'm  all  alone  — 
"Mi  amor,  mi  corazon." 

Nights  when  she  knew  where  I  'd  ride 

She  would  listen  for  my  spurs, 
Throw  the  big  door  open  wide, 

Raise  them  laughin'  eyes  of  hers, 
And  my  heart  would  nigh  stop  beatin' 
When  I  'd  hear  her  tender  greetin' 
Whispered  soft  for  me  alone  — 
"Mi  amor,  mi  corazon!" 

Moonlight  in  the  patio, 

Old  Senora  noddin'  near, 
Me  and  Juana  talkin'  low 

So  the  "madre"  could  n't  hear  — 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  121 

How  those  hours  would  go  a-flyin', 
And  too  soon  I  hear  her  sighin', 

In  her  little  sorry-tone  — 

"Adios,  mi  corazon." 

But  one  time  I  had  to  fly 

For  a  foolish  gamblin'  fight, 
And  she  said  a  swift  good-bye 

On  that  black,  unlucky  night. 
When  I  'd  loosed  her  arms  from  clingin', 
With  her  words  the  hoofs  kept  ringin', 
As  I  galloped  north  alone  — 
"Adios,  mi  corazon." 

Never  seen  her  since  that  night; 

I  cain't  cross  the  Line,  you  know. 
She  was  Mex  and  I  was  white; 

Like  as  not  it 's  better  so. 
Yet  I  Ve  always  sort  of  missed  her 
Since  that  last  wild  night  I  kissed  her, 
Left  her  heart  and  lost  my  own  — 
"Adios,  mi  corazon." 

CHARLES  B.  CLARKE,  JR. 

A   FULL  EDITION 

"MAY  I  print  a  kiss  on  your  lips?"  I  said, 
And  she  nodded  her  sweet  permission; 

So  we  went  to  press  and  I  rather  guess 
We  printed  a  full  edition." 

JOSEPH  LILIENTHAL. 

THE  SLIPRAILS  AND  THE  SPUR 

THE  colors  of  the  setting  sun 

Withdrew  across  the  Western  land  — 
He  raised  the  sliprails,  one  by  one, 

And  shot  them  home  with  trembling  hand; 
Her  brown  hands  clung  —  her  face  grew  pale  — 

Ah !  quivering  chin  and  eyes  that  brim !  — 
One  quick,  fierce  kiss  across  the  rail, 

And,  "Good-bye,  Mary!"     "Good-bye,  Jim!" 

Oh!  he  rides  hard  to  race  the  pain 

Who  rides  from  love,  who  rides  from  home: 

But  he  rides  slowly  home  again, 
Whose  heart  has  learnt  to  love  and  roam. 


122  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

A  hand  upon  the  horse's  mane, 

And  one  foot  in  the  stirrup  set, 
And,  stooping  back  to  kiss  again, 

With  "Good-bye,  Mary!  don't  you  fret! 
When  I  come  back"  —  he  laughed  for  her  — 

"We  do  not  know  how  soon  't  will  be; 
I  '11  whistle  as  I  round  the  spur  — 

You  let  the  sliprails  down  for  me." 

She  gasped  for  sudden  loss  of  hope, 

As,  with  a  backward  wave  to  her, 
He  cantered  down  the  grassy  slope 

And  swiftly  round  the  dark'ning  spur. 
Black-pencilled  panels  standing  high, 

And  darkness  fading  into  stars, 
And  blurring  fast  against  the  sky, 

A  faint  white  form  beside  the  bars. 

And  often  at  the  set  of  sun, 

In  winter  bleak  and  summer  brown, 
She  'd  steal  across  the  little  run, 

And  shyly  let  the  sliprails  down, 
And  listen  there  when  darkness  shut 

The  nearer  spur  in  silence  deep; 
And  when  they  called  her  from  the  hut 

Steal  home  and  cry  herself  to  sleep. 

HENRY  LAWSON. 

SCHONE  ROTHRAUT 

TAKE  as  gold  this  old  tradition 

Of  the  royal-rendered  wage, 
Guerdon  of  love's  mad  ambition 

In  the  true  heart  of  a  page. 

He,  his  passion  vainly  hiding, 

Worn  and  pale  with  hopeless  pain, 

Through  the  summer  woods  was  riding 
Close  beside  his  mistress'  rein. 

"Why  so  sad,  my  page?"  and  turning, 

Gazed  she  straight  into  his  eyes. 
"  'T  is  thy  thought  my  bosom  burning 

With  a  flame  that  never  dies." 

Flushed  she  then,  but  answered,  "Carest 

Thou  to  feed  the  flame  I  bring? 
Look  me  full,  and  if  thou  darest, 

Kiss  the  daughter  of  the  king." 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  123 

Stark  he  stood,  all  wonders  mingling, 

Then  from  heart  to  finger-tips 
Rushed  the  heated  life-blood  tingling 

As  he  seized  upon  her  lips. 

Crushing  new-born  awe  with  laughter, 

Said  she,  "Thus  must  end  thy  pain; 
See  thou  never  more  hereafter 

Lookest  for  like  grace  again." 

Spake  he  glad:  "Each  leaf  that  glitters 

In  the  sun  thy  gift  hath  seen; 
Every  bird  that  sings  and  twitters 

Knoweth  where  my  lips  have  been. 

"And  the  winds  from  dawn  to  vesper, 

Blow  they  north  or  blow  they  south 
Softly  in  my  ear  shall  whisper, 

'Thou  hast  kissed  Schone  Rothraut's  mouth/ 

"Every  floweret  of  the  meadow, 

Every  bird  upon  the  tree, 
In  life's  sunshine  or  its  shadow, 

Shall  bring  back  my  joy  to  me." 

JOHN  ARTHUR  GOODCHILD. 

DORIS 

DOWN  the  lane  and  across  the  fields 

Doris  and  I  were  walking. 
Past  bulging  stacks  that  the  harvest  yields, 

Doris  and  I  were  talking. 

"The  man  I  wed,"  said  Doris  fair 

(Doris  did  most  of  the  talking), 
"Must  be  a  multimillionaire," 

I  only  kept  on  walking. 

"His  hair  must  be  yellow,  his  eyes  dark  blue" 

('T  was  Doris  doing  the  talking), 
"And  he  must  be  a  Yale  man,  too, 

Is  n't  it  lovely  walking?" 

Now  I  am  poor  and  my  hair  is  brown 

(I  never  was  much  at  talking), 
And  I  came  from  Harvard,  in  Cambridge  town 

(I'm  really  quite  good  at  walking). 


124  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

But  I  slipped  my  arm  around  Doris  sweet 
(She  suddenly  stopped  her  talking), 

And  I  hugged  her  nearly  off  her  feet, 
'T  was  really  a  help  to  walking. 

And  I  said:  "I'm  sorry  I  don't  suit  you." 
(Somehow  we  'd  stopped  our  walking). 

But,  "Oh,"  said  Doris,  "  I  guess  you  '11  do." 
For  Doris  was  only  talking. 

CLARENCE  S.  HARPER. 

STRAWBERRIES 

WE  wandered  in  the  woodland  dim, 

And  there  amid  the  leafy  blue, 
I  plucked,  to  please  her  airy  whim, 

The  fragile  snow-white  strawberry  bloom. 

'T  was  when  the  strawberries  were  ripe 

I  wooed  her  by  the  sapphire  sea, 
And  heard  the  mating  bluebird  pipe 

A  prescience  full  of  joy  to  me. 

And  when  the  wedding  bells  rang  free, 

And  all  our  thoughts  flowed  on  like  rhyme, 

The  blush  was  on  the  strawberry  — 
The  strawberry  was  in  its  prime. 

Two  years  have  swiftly  flown  since  then  — 
Two  happy  years  —  once  more  the  birds 

And  strawberries  are  in  the  glen, 

That  heard  of  love  our  whispered  words. 

The  honeysuckle  freights  the  breeze, 
The  garden  blows  rose-red  with  June, 

And  on  his  plate  of  strawberries 

The  baby 's  drumming  with  his  spoon. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 

THE  LINKS  OF  LOVE 

MY  heart  is  like  a  driver-club, 

That  heaves  the  pellet  hard  and  straight, 
That  carries  every  let  and  rub, 

The  whole  performance  really  great; 
My  heart  is  like  a  bulger-head, 

That  whiffles  on  the  wily  tee, 
Because  my  love  has  kindly  said 

She  '11  halve  the  round  of  life  with  me. 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  125 

My  heart  is  also  like  a  cleek, 

Resembling  most  the  mashie  sort, 
That  spanks  the  object,  so  to  speak, 

Across  the  sandy  bar  to  port; 
And  hers  is  like  a  putting-green, 

The  haven  where  I  boast  to  be, 
For  she  assures  me  she  is  keen 

To  halve  the  round  of  life  with  me. 

Raise  me  a  bunker,  if  you  can, 

That  beetles  o'er  a  deadly  ditch, 
Where  any  but  the  bogey-man 

Is  practically  bound  to  pitch; 
Plant  me  beneath  a  hedge  of  thorn, 

Or  up  a  figurative  tree, 
What  matter,  when  my  love  has  sworn 

To  halve  the  round  of  life  with  me? 

OWEN  SEAMAN. 

ALL   THAT  I  ASK 

ALL  that  I  ask  is  but  to  stand  — 
Or  sit  —  and  hold  your  burning  hand. 
Ah,  love,  that  would  indeed  be  grand!  — 
All  that  I  ask. 

All  that  I  ask  is  but  to  hold 
You  in  embrace  that 's  not  too  bold  — 
Just  bold  enough.     Oh,  joy,  pure  gold!  — 
All  that  I  ask. 

All  that  I  ask  is  but  to  seize 
Your  lips  and  drain  them  to  the  lees. 
Would  that  not  be,  love,  just  the  cheese? 
All  that  I  ask. 

BERT  LESTON  TAYLOR. 

A   WOMAN 

"I  LOVE,"  she  said,  with  her  faint,  sweet  smile, 

"But  I  shall  not  narrow  this  life  of  mine; 
Or  bid  my  spirit  its  thirst  beguile 

With  the  joys  that  women  still  count  divine. 
Why,  I  am  a  soul!     I  am  part  of  God! 

I  doubt,  and  question,  —  have  wings  to  mount; 
Do  you  think  I  shall  only  moil  and  plod, 

And  fill  my  cup  at  the  common  fount?  " 


126  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

That  was  only  a  year  and  a  day  — 

Last  night  her  fingers  were  softly  pressed 
On  the  downy  head  of  a  babe,  that  lay 

With  warm,  wet  mouth  at  her  gracious  breast. 
"Do  you  think,"  she  said,  " there  is  rarer  bliss 

Where  the  long  bright  cycles  of  heaven  unroll? 
Or  any  wonder  more  deep  than  this, 

To  share  with  God  in  a  human  soul?  " 

EMILY  HUNTINGTON  MILLER. 

ASPHODEL 

As  SOME  pale  shade  in  glorious  battle  slain, 
On  beds  of  rue,  beside  the  silent  streams, 
Recalls  outworn  delights  in  happy  dreams; 

The  play  of  oars  upon  the  flashing  main, 

The  speed  of  runners  and  the  swelling  vein, 
And  toil  in  pleasant  upland  field  that  teems 
With  vine  and  gadding  gourd  —  until  he  seems 

To  feel  wan  memories  of  the  sun  again 

And  scent  the  vineyard  slopes  when  dawn  is  wet, 

But  feels  no  ache  within  his  loosened  knees 
To  join  the  runners  where  the  course  is  set, 

Nor  smite  the  billows  of  the  fruitless  seas  — 
So  I  recall  our  day  of  passion  yet, 
With  sighs  and  tenderness,  but  no  regret. 

WlLLA   SlBERT   GATHER. 

LOVE'S  CUP 

LIFE'S  richest  cup  is  Love's  to  fill  — 

Who  drinks,  if  deep  the  draught  shall  be, 

Knows  all  the  rapture  of  the  hill 

Blent  with  the  heart-break  of  the  sea. 

O  tired  wings  that  trail  the  ground! 

O  sudden  flight  to  worlds  above! 
O  thorns  among  the  roses  bound 

About  the  brows  of  those  who  love! 

ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS. 

BLANCHE 

GOD  did  not  make  her  very  wise, 

But  carved  a  strangeness  round  her  mouth; 

He  put  great  sorrow  in  her  eyes, 

And  softness  for  men's  souls  in  drouth. 

And  on  her  face,  for  all  to  see, 

The  seal  of  awful  tragedy. 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  127 

God  did  not  make  her  very  fair, 

But  white  and  lithe  and  strange  and  sweet; 

A  subtle  fragrance  in  her  hair, 
A  slender  swiftness  in  her  feet, 

And  in  her  hands  a  slow  caress  — 

God  made  these  for  my  steadfastness. 

God  did  not  give  to  her  a  heart, 

But  there  is  that  within  her  face 
To  make  men  long  to  muse  apart 

Until  they  goodness  find  and  grace, 
And  think  to  read  and  worship  there 
All  good  —  yet  she  is  scarcely  fair. 

A.  BERNARD  MIALL. 
SHADOWS 

A  SONG  of  Shadows:  never  glory  was 

But  it  had  some  soft  shadow  that  would  lie 

On  wall,  on  quiet  water,  on  smooth  grass, 
Or  in  the  vistas  of  the  phantasy : 

The  shadow  of  the  house  upon  the  lawn, 

Upon  the  house  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 
And  through  the  moon-steeped  hours  unto  the  dawn 

The  shadow  of  thy  beauty  over  me. 

VICTOR  PLARR. 

AUCASSIN  ET  NICOLETE 

SWEET  his  lady,  fair  of  face, 

From  the  turret  to  the  ground 
In  a  moment's  breathless  space 

Glad  escape  has  found. 

Swift  she  takes  her  wilful  way 

Past  the  blossoms  drenched  in  dew; 

(What  if  Aucassin  were  I  — 
Nicolete  were  you!) 

Fair  white  daisies  'gainst  her  feet 
Show  less  white,  less  pure  than  they; 

Through  the  shadowy  moonlit  street 
Love  has  found  a  way. 

To  the  dungeon  deep  and  chill 

Comes  she  where  her  lover  lies, 
And  the  air  is  all  a-thrill 

With  his  passion-cries. 


128  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Sharp  and  bright  her  dagger  gleams, 

As  she  cuts  her  yellow  hair; 
Throws  it  him  who  oft  in  dreams 

Kissed  and  called  it  fair; 

Whispers,  ere  she  turns  to  fly, 
All  the  old  words  dear  and  true; 

(Ah,  that  Aucassin  were  I  — 
Nicolete  were  you!) 

What  is  left  to  us  to-day 

From  that  simple  elder  time? 
Just  the  half -forgotten  way 

Of  a  captive's  rhyme. 

Yet  it  breathes  of  courage  high, 
Strong  Love,  swift  to  dare  and  do; 

(Ah,  that  Aucassin  were  I  — 
Nicolete  were  you!) 

GRACE  DUFFIELD  GOODWIN. 


MEMORIES 

MY  love  he  went  to  Burdon  Fair, 
And  of  all  the  gifts  that  he  saw  there 
Was  none  could  his  great  love  declare; 
So  he  brought  me  marjoram  smelling  rare  — 
Its  sweetness  filled  all  the  air. 

Oh,  the  days  I  dote  on  yet, 

Marjoram,  pansies,  mignonette! 

My  love  he  sailed  across  the  sea, 
And  all  to  make  a  home  for  me. 
Oh,  sweet  his  last  kiss  on  the  lea, 
The  pansies  plucked  beneath  the  tree, 
When  he  said,  "My  love,  I'll  send  for  thee!" 

Oh,  the  days  I  dote  on  yet, 

Marjoram,  pansies,  mignonette! 

His  mother  sought  for  me  anon; 

So  long  my  name  she  would  not  own. 

Ah,  gladly  would  she  now  atone, 

For  we  together  make  our  moan! 

She  brought  the  mignonette  I  've  sown. 

Oh,  the  days  I  dote  on  yet, 

Marjoram,  pansies,  mignonette! 

ALEXANDER  HAY  JAPP. 


THE   GENTLER   EMOTIONS  129 

A  BLOOD-RED  RING  HUNG  ROUND   THE  MOON 

A  BLOOD-RED  ring  hung  round  the  moon, 
Hung  round  the  moon.     Ah  me!     Ah  me! 

I  heard  the  piping  of  the  Loon, 
A  wounded  Loon.     Ah  me! 

And  yet  the  eagle  feathers  rare, 

I,  trembling,  wove  in  my  brave's  hair. 

He  left  me  in  the  early  morn, 

The  early  morn.     Ah  me!     Ah  me! 
The  feathers  swayed  like  stately  corn, 

So  like  the  corn.     Ah  me! 
A  fierce  wind  swept  across  the  plain, 
The  stately  corn  was  snapped  in  twain. 

They  crushed  in  blood  the  hated  race, 

The  hated  race.     Ah  me!     Ah  me! 
I  only  clasped  a  cold,  blind  face, 

His  cold,  dead  face.     Ah  me! 
A  blood-red  ring  hangs  in  my  sight, 
I  hear  the  Loon  cry  every  night. 

JOHN  E.  LOGAN. 

WITH   YOU 

OH,  the  blue,  blue  depths  of  the  sky 

And  the  white  of  the  clouds  below, 
The  tender  green  of  the  earth 

And  the  purl  of  the  water's  flow, 
The  splendor  of  spring's  full  flower 

Bathed  in  the  morning  dew  — 
This,  dear  love,  is  heaven  enough, 

Heaven  on  earth  with  you! 

THOMAS  H.  BRIGGS,  JR. 

0  LOVE,  0  LOVE,  HOW  LONG? 

THE  tree  that  yearns  with  drooping  crest 
O  'er  some  deep  river's  tranquil  breast 
At  length  grows  downward,  and  is  blest  — 
O  Love,  O  Love,  how  long? 

Belated  birds  at  set  of  sun 
Go  sailing  homeward  one  by  one, 
For  sweets  are  earned  when  toil  is  done  — 
O  Love,  O  Love,  how  long? 


130  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

The  creeper  through  the  tangled  maze 
Of  brushwood  following  lightless  ways 
Shall  some  day  reach  the  unclouded  rays  — 
O  Love,  O  Love,  how  long? 

The  bark  that  strains  with  groaning  mast 
Through  troubled  seas  and  skies  o'ercast 
Shall  sight  the  wished-for  port  at  last  — 
O  Love,  O  Love,  how  long? 

The  traveller  spent  by  many  a  mile 
Plods  grimly  on,  yet  knows  the  while 
That  all  will  end  in  one  fond  smile  — 
O  Love,  O  Love,  how  long? 

The  hope  of  pleasure  softens  pain, 
And  if  by  suffering  men  attain, 
A  present  loss  is  future  gain  — 
O  Love,  O  Love,  how  long? 

EDWARD  CRACROFT  LEFROY. 

LOVE  AND  WAR 

THE  Chancellor  mused  as  he  nibbled  his  pen 

(Sure  no  Minister  ever  looked  wiser), 
And  said,  "I  can  summon  a  million  of  men 

To  fight  for  their  country  and  Kaiser; 

"While  that  shallow  charlatan  ruling  o'er  France, 

Who  deems  himself  deeper  than  Merlin, 
Thinks  he  and  his  soldiers  have  only  to  dance 

To  the  tune  of  the  can-can  to  Berlin. 

"But  as  soon  as  he  gets  to  the  bank  of  the  Rhine, 
He'll  be  met  by  the  great  German  army." 

Then  the  Chancellor  laughed,  and  he  said,  "I  will  dine, 
For  I  see  nothing  much  to  alarm  me." 

Yet  still  as  he  went  out  he  paused  by  the  door 

(For  his  mind  was  in  truth  heavy  laden), 
And  he  saw  a  stout  fellow,  equipped  for  the  war, 

Embracing  a  fair-haired  young  maiden. 

"Ho!  ho!"  said  the  Chancellor,  "this  will  not  do, 

For  Mars  to  be  toying  with  Venus, 
When  these  Frenchmen  are  coming  —  a  rascally  crew!  — 

And  the  Rhine  only  flowing  between  us," 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  131 

So  the  wary  old  fox,  just  in  order  to  hear, 

Strode  one  or  two  huge  paces  nearer; 
And  he  heard  the  youth  say,  "More  than  life  art  thou  dear; 

But,  O  loved  one,  the  Fatherland  'a  dearer." 

Then  the  maid  dried  her  tears  and  looked  up  in  his  eyes, 

And  she  said,  "Thou  of  loving  art  worthy; 
When  all  are  in  danger  no  brave  man  e  'er  flies, 

And  thy  love  should  spur  on  —  not  deter  thee." 

The  Chancellor  took  a  cigar,  which  he  lit, 

And  he  murmured,  "Here  's  naught  to  alarm  me; 

By  Heaven!  I  swear  they  are  both  of  them  fit 
To  march  with  the  great  German  army." 

ARTHUR  PACHETT  MARTIN. 

A   PRAYER 

DEAR,  let  me  dream  of  love, 

Ah!  though  a  dream  it  be! 
I'll  ask  no  boon,  above 

A  word,  a  smile,  from  thee: 
At  most,  in  some  still  hour,  one  kindly  thought  of  me. 

Sweet,  let  me  gaze  a  while 

Into  those  radiant  eyes! 
I  '11  not  scheme  to  beguile 

The  heart  that  deeper  lies 
Beneath  them,  than  yon  star  in  night's  pellucid  skies. 

Love,  let  my  spirit  bow 

In  worship  at  thy  shrine! 
I'll  swear  thou  shalt  not  know 
One  word  from  lips  of  mine, 

An  instant's  pain  to  send  through  that  shy  soul  of  thine. 

SELWYN  IMAGE. 

PHILOMEL 

LISTEN,  love! 

It  is  the  nightingale's  voice; 
Listen,  love! 

He  bids  his  true  love  rejoice; 
See,  the  dark  glade 

Is  a-pulse  with  his  passion; 
See,  the  cascade 

That  the  moon  is  a-flash  on 
Has  joined  in  his  hymn 

With  a  low  intercession, 


132  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Has  drunken  the  vim 

Of  his  rapture's  confession; 
As  the  tremolo  sweet 

Of  a  silver  pandore 
Sways  in  unison  meet 

With  the  clink  of  a  dance-girl's  tambour. 

Listen,  love! 

It  is  the  nightingale's  note; 
Listen,  love! 

Its  gushes  of  ecstasy  float 
Down  the  blue  gloom 

Of  this  odorous  valley, 
Down  the  perfume 

Of  this  rose-girdled  alley, 
Till  they  faint  on  the  far 

Fragrant  hill  in  the  distance, 
Till  they  fade  as  a  star 

In  the  morning's  existence; 
Then  pour  down  again 

In  redoubled  emotion 
Through  the  languorous  glen, 

A  rich  wave  from  harmony's  ocean. 

Listen,  love! 

It  is  the  nightingale's  song; 
Listen,  love! 

How  its  pure  transports  prolong 
As  if  his  flame-soul 

Swooned  away  in  the  singing, 
As  if  his  heart's  roll 

Melted  out  in  the  ringing; 
As  if  he  had  borrowed 

The  secret  of  gladness 
To  draw  those  who  sorrowed 

Away  from  their  sadness; 
And  in  the  dark  hour, 

To  brood,  a  bright  spirit, 
Anear  us  to  mark  our 

Darkest  foreboding  and  cheer  it. 

Listen,  love! 

It  is  the  nightingale's  tune; 
Listen,  love! 

He  is  the  spirit  of  June; 
He  is  the  bright 

Irrepressible  lover, 
Dismayed  not  by  night 


THE   GENTLER   EMOTIONS  133 

Or  the  shadows  that  hover  — 
Oh,  why  art  thou  bold 

When  thy  mates  are  unheard? 
Thou  'rt  a  seraph  ensouled 

In  the  form  of  a  bird; 
No  other  could  fling 

Joy  at  grief  that  so  bound  him, 
No  other  could  sing 

With  such  darkness  depressing  around  him. 

Listen,  love! 

It  is  the  nightingale's  rhyme; 
Listen,  love! 

He  is  hid  in  the  leaves  of  the  lime; 
And  it  seems  that  the  orbs 

Of  yon  heaven  are  nearer, 
When  his  trilling  absorbs 

All  the  murmur  of  fear  or 
Vague  tones  of  unrest 

And  longings  fulfilled  not, 
Unsatisfied  quest 

And  the  doubts  that  are  stilled  not; 
All  these  pass  away 

And  dissolve  in  the  chorus 
Of  his  notes,  that  now  sway 

In  rapture  about  us  and  o'er  us. 

JOHN  MYERS  O'HARA. 

THE  PARTING 

WITHOUT  one  bitter  feeling  let  us  part  — 

And  for  the  years  in  which  your  love  has  shed 
A  radiance  like  a  glory  round  my  head, 

I  thank  you,  yes,  I  thank  you  from  my  heart. 

I  thank  you  for  the  cherished  hope  of  years, 

A  starry  future,  dim  and  yet  divine, 

Winging  its  way  from  heaven  to  be  mine, 
Laden  with  joy,  and  ignorant  of  tears. 

I  thank  you,  yes,  I  thank  you  even  more 

That  my  heart  learnt  not  without  love  to  live, 
But  gave  and  gave,  and  still  had  more  to  give 

From  an  abundant  and  exhaustless  store. 

I  thank  you  and  no  grief  is  in  these  tears ; 

I  thank  you  not  in  bitterness  but  truth, 

For  the  fair  vision  that  adorned  my  youth 
And  glorified  so  many  happy  years. 


134  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Yet  how  much  more  I  thank  you  that  you  tore 
At  last  the  veil  that  you  had  woven,  away; 
I  saw  the  thing  I  worshipped  was  of  clay, 

And  vain  and  false  what  I  had  knelt  before. 

I  thank  you  that  you  taught  me  the  stern  truth, 
(None  other  could  have  told  and  I  believed), 
That  vain  had  been  my  life,  and  I  deceived, 

And  wasted  all  the  purpose  of  my  youth. 

I  thank  you  that  your  hand  dashed  down  the  shrine, 

Wherein  my  idol  worship  I  had  paid; 

Else  had  I  never  known  a  soul  was  made 
To  serve  and  worship  only  the  Divine. 

I  thank  you  that  the  heart  I  cast  away 

On  such  as  you,  though  broken,  bruised,  and  crushed, 
Now  that  its  fiery  throbbing  is  all  hushed, 

Upon  a  worthier  altar  I  can  lay. 

I  thank  you  for  the  lesson  that  such  love 

Is  a  perverting  of  God's  royal  right, 

That  is  it  made  but  for  the  Infinite, 
And  all  too  great  to  live  except  above. 

I  thank  you  for  a  terrible  awaking, 

And  if  reproach  seemed  hidden  in  my  pain, 
And  sorrow  seemed  to  cry  on  your  disdain, 

Know  that  my  blessing  lay  in  your  forsaking. 

Farewell  for  ever  now;  in  peace  we  part; 

And  should  an  idle  vision  of  my  tears 

Arise  before  your  soul  in  after  years  — 
Remember  that  I  thank  you  from  my  heart! 

ANONYMOUS. 

LOVE'S  DELAY 

THEY  sat  —  they  two  —  upon  the  cliff  together, 
And  watched  the  moonlight  dance  along  the  swell, 

Till  broke  upon  their  pleasance,  'mid  the  heather, 
The  midnight  warning  of  the  village  bell. 

"Good-night,  my  love,"  he  said;  "we  pass  the  measure 

Of  blessing  which  in  one  day's  lap  can  lie; 
To  linger  later  were  to  weary  Pleasure, 

And  draw  some  brightness  from  To-morrow's  eye." 


THE    GENTLER   EMOTIONS  135 

They  rose,  and  gave  a  last  fond  look  at  ocean, 

And  then  another,  and  again  one  more, 
And  lingering  thus,  at  every  homeward  motion 

They  noted  some  delight  unseen  before. 

So  waned  the  Night;  and  when  young  Morn  upstarted 
And  quenched  pale  Luna's  lamp  with  ruddier  glare, 

He  found  them  parting  yet,  and  yet  unparted,  — 
Still  pledged  to  move,  and  still  love-anchored  there. 

EDWARD  CRACROFT  LEFROY. 


HAD   YOU  WAITED 

You  would  have  understood  me,  had  you  waited; 

I  could  have  loved  you,  dear!  as  well  as  he: 
Had  we  not  been  impatient,  dear!  and  fated 

Always  to  disagree. 

What  is  the  use  of  speech?    Silence  were  fitter: 
Lest  we  should  still  be  wishing  things  unsaid. 

Though  all  the  words  we  ever  spake  were  bitter, 
Shall  I  reproach  you  dead? 

Nay,  let  this  earth,  your  portion,  likewise  cover 

All  the  old  anger,  setting  us  apart: 
Always,  in  all,  in  truth  was  I  your  lover; 

Always,  I  held  your  heart. 

I  have  met  other  women  who  were  tender, 
As  you  were  cold,  dear!  with  a  grace  as  rare. 

Think  you,  I  turned  to  them,  or  made  surrender, 
I  who  had  found  you  fair? 

Had  we  been  patient,  dear!   ah,  had  you  waited, 
I  had  fought  death  for  you,  better  than  he: 

But  from  the  very  first,  dear!  we  were  fated 
Always  to  disagree. 

Late,  late,  I  come  to  you,  now  death  discloses 
Love  that  in  life  was  not  to  be  our  part: 

On  your  low-lying  mound  between  the  roses, 
Sadly  I  cast  my  heart. 

I  would  not  waken  you:  nay!  this  is  fitter; 

Death  and  the  darkness  give  you  unto  me; 
Here  we  who  loved  so,  were  so  cold  and  bitter, 

Hardly  can  disagree. 

ERNEST  DOWSON. 


136  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

I  LOVE  MY  LOVE  WITH  A   KISS 

OH,  I  love  my  love  in  the  sunny  summer-time 

With  a  kiss, —  or  two,  or  three; 
Like  a  rose  of  June  in  the  full  of  the  moon 

She  is  lovely,  my  love,  is  she! 
So  I  hold  her  dear,  and  sing  her  a  rhyme, 

With  a  kiss,  —  or  two,  or  three; 
Like  the  honey  deep  in  the  flower  of  the  thyme 

So  is  my  love  sweet  to  me! 

Oh,  I  love  my  love  in  the  happy  autumn  days 

With  a  kiss, —  or  four,  or  five; 
She  laughs  like  the  trees  in  the  swing  of  the  breeze 

When  the  last  warm  breezes  drive! 
So  I  hold  her  close,  and  hymn  her  praise, 

With  a  kiss,  —  or  four,  or  five; 
Like  the  golden-rod  with  its  glorious  rays, 

She's  the  sunniest  thing  alive! 

Oh,  I  love  my  love  in  the  cheery  winter-time 

With  a  kiss, —  or  six,  or  seven; 
Like  the  reddening  snow  in  the  sunset  glow 

Is  her  cheery  cheek  at  even! 
It  is  all  for  her,  the  Christmas  chime, 

With  a  kiss,  —  or  six,  or  seven; 
Like  the  stars  of  night  on  the  sparkling  rime 

Is  my  love,  whose  love  is  Heaven! 

Oh,  I  love  my  love  in  the  merry  vernal  morn 

With  a  kiss,  —  or  eight,  or  nine; 
Like  the  apple  bloom  and  its  sweet  perfume 

Is  she  pink  in  the  sunshine! 
So  she  holds  my  heart  when  April  's  born, 

With  a  kiss,  —  or  eight,  or  nine; 
Like  the  thrush  in  song  on  the  blossoming  thorn 

Is  the  love  I  know  is  mine. 

ALEXANDER  MACLEAN. 


Part  p  JJJ 
DRAWING-ROOM   AND    BOUDOIR 


WITH  A  DIAMOND  FEDE  RING  ON  AN  OLD  VENETIAN 
MIRROR 

WHAT  time  in  front  of  this  dim  glass  the  Princess  fair 

Was  combing  out  her  wealth  of  red-gold  hair', 

The  Prince  down-stooping  kissed  her,  while  she  raised  much  soft 

objection: 

The  mirror  took  the  whole  scene  in  and  made  a  sweet  reflection. 

WILLIAM  THEODOKE  PETERS. 


Part 
DRAWING-ROOM  AND  BOUDOIR 


THE  LARCENY 

"T  WAS  tempting,  fat,  and  looked  well  filled; 
With  joy  the  villain's  heart  it  thrilled. 
"These  women  have  no  sense,"  he  said, 
As  he  approached  with  stealthy  tread. 
"They  tempt  us  with  their  foolishness, 
And  so  I  take  that  purse,  I  guess." 

A  sudden  grab,  and  then  a  scream, 

A  cry,  "Stop  thief,"  and  through  the  stream 

Of  moving  people  quick  there  glides 

The  man,  and  in  an  alley  hides. 

There  gloatingly  he  eyes  the  purse. 
"Oho!"  he  cries;  "I  '11  reimburse 
Myself  for  all  the  pains  I  took 
To  get  this  well-filled  pocketbook." 

'T  is  open,  and  within  he  sees 
A  yard  of  tape  and  two  trunk  keys, 
A  postage  stamp  (he  waxes  wroth), 
A  spool  of  thread,  a  piece  of  cloth; 
And,  as  reward  for  this  bold  crime, 
He  finds  at  last  one  silver  dime. 

ELLIOTT  FLOWER. 

THE  CURLING  TONGS 

WHO  can  describe  the  dainty  curls 

Rippling  Marjorie's  shapely  head, 
Just  as  the  wimpling  brook  that  purls 

Down  to  the  sea  on  a  pebbly  bed; 
Poets  may  prattle  of  nature's  spells, 

Chanting  its  charms  in  their  sickly  songs, 
What  makes  Marjorie's  hair  rebel  — 

Art  —  in  the  shape  of  a  curling  tongs. 
139 


140  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

If  but  the  day  be  dull  and  damp, 

Mistress  Marjorie's  locks  are  limp: 
Give  her  the  chance  of  a  tongs  and  lamp, 

Mistress  Marjorie's  locks  are  crimp. 
Is  she,  perchance,  of  a  morning  late, 

Deaf  to  the  sound  of  a  score  of  gongs, 
Blame  not  the  maiden;  only  rate 

Mistress  Marjorie's  curling  tongs. 

Mothers  were  wont  to  braid  their  hair, 

That  was  a  mother's  wish,  we  're  told. 
Dimity  made  them  debonair 

Once  in  the  simpler  days  of  old. 
Those  were  the  times  ere  the  sex  could  boast 

Mannish  rights  —  and  a  woman's  wrongs. 
Now  it  must  smoke  and  propose  a  toast; 

Now  it 's  equipped  with  a  curling  tongs. 

Santa  Glaus  in  the  dear  old  times 

Sent  it  the  "Keepsake"  bound  in  calf; 
"Friendship's  Offering,"  limping  rhymes, 

Verse  that  the  modern  maid  would  chaff. 
Now  it  prefers  a  book  that  shocks, 

Yet  to  the  friskily  frizzed  belongs; 
If  you  would  give  it  a  Christmas  box, 

"Dodo"  will  do  —  and  a  curling  tongs. 

ANONYMOUS. 

MARGERY  MAKETH  THE  TEA 

THE  doors  are  shut,  the  windows  fast, 
Outside  the  gust  is  driving  past, 
Outside  the  shivering  ivy  clings, 
While  on  the  hob  the  kettle  sings. 

Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 

Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  streams  are  hushed  up  where  they  flowed, 
The  ponds  are  frozen  along  the  road, 
The  cattle  are  housed  in  shed  and  byre, 
While  singeth  the  kettle  on  the  fire. 

Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 

Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  fisherman  on  the  bay  in  his  boat 
Shivers  and  buttons  up  his  coat; 
The  traveller  stops  at  the  tavern  door, 


DRAWING-ROOM    AND   BOUDOIR    141 

And  the  kettle  answers  the  chimney's  roar. 
Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 
Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  firelight  dances  up  the  wall, 

Footsteps  are  heard  in  the  outer  hall, 

And  a  kiss  and  a  welcome  that  fill  the  room, 

And  the  kettle  sings  in  the  glimmer  and  gloom. 

Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 

Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

WILLIAM  WILFRED  CAMPBELL. 

THE  LEISURE  CLASSES 

THERE  was  a  little  beggar  maid 

Who  wed  a  king  long,  long  ago; 
Of  course  the  taste  that  he  displayed 

Was  criticised  by  folk  who  know 
Just  what  formalities  and  things 
Are  due  to  beggar  maids  and  kings. 

But  straight  the  monarch  made  reply: 
"  There  is  small  difference,  as  I  live, 

Between  our  stations!     She  and  I 
Subsist  on  what  the  people  give. 

We  do  not  toil  with  strength  or  skill, 

And,  pleasing  Heaven,  never  will." 

ANONYMOUS. 

BETTY  TO  HERSELF 

How  kind  they  have  been  to  their  Betty! 

What  girl  is  so  favored  as  I? 
The  sum  of  my  virtues  is  petty, 

But  love  sees  the  figures  mile  high. 
The  pleasing  array  's  almost  endless, 

They  've  humored  my  every  whim, 
Yet  I  feel  quite  forsaken  and  friendless  — 

There  's  nothing  from  him! 

His  income  I  know  is  a  small  one 

With  which  a  great  deal  must  be  done; 
Forsooth,  it 's  enough  to  appall  one, 

His  burden  from  sun  unto  sun. 
But  surely  I  've  kept  without  reason, 

Expecting,  by  good  will  inspired, 
A  greeting  becoming  the  season  — 

It 's  all  I  desired! 


142  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

These  verses  I  longed  for  so  deeply 

Are  puerile  things  after  all; 
And  none  must  discover  how  cheaply 

The  strains  of  the  rhapsody  brawl !  — 
But  whose  card  is  this  with  the  roses? 

It  'a  his  —  and  the  line  that  I  read 
Such  a  beautiful  secret  discloses  — 

My  cup  is  o'erflowing  indeed! 

EDWARD  W.  BANNARD. 

SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  GIRL 

You  talk  about  some  maiden  fair, 

With  alabaster  brow, 
Her  face  like  snowdrifts  soft  and  rare  — 

As  poets  oft  allow; 
Your  parian,  pentelic  maid  — 

Admire  her,  ye  who  can; 
My  choice  is  for  a  darker  shade, 

The  girl  of  healthy  tan! 

The  neck  they  liken  to  the  swan, 

The  goose  has,  quite  as  true; 
The  maid  with  ivory  forehead  on 

May  have  a  blockhead,  too; 
But  nut-brown  damsels  are  the  thing 

For  me  or  any  man; 
The  summer  girl 's  the  one  I  sing, 

The  girl  with  glowing  tan! 

The  snow-white  pallor  some  admire 

Cold  hands  and  feet  foretell; 
The  marble  brows  they  so  admire 

Mean  marble  hearts  as  well; 
Give  me  the  warm,  fresh  blood  that  flows 

On  nature's  freest  plan, 
The  wholesome  look,  the  eye  that  glows, 

The  girl  with  summer  tan! 

ANONYMOUS. 

GRANDMOTHER'S   VALENTINE 

THE  branches  creaked  on  the  garret  roof, 

And  the  snow  blew  in  at  the  eaves, 
When  I  found  a  hymn-book,  tattered  and  torn, 

And  turned  its  mouldering  leaves. 
And  lo!  in  its  yellow  pages  lay 
Grandmother's  valentine  tucked  away. 


DRAWING-ROOM    AND    BOUDOIR    143 

Hearts  and  roses  together  twined, 

And  sweet  little  Cupids  quaint, 
The  gilt  from  the  hearts  was  worn  away, 

And  the  pink  of  the  roses  faint, 
And  the  Cupids'  faces  were  blurred  and  dim, 
But  it  marked  the  place  of  her  favorite  hymn. 

Before  me  rose  on  the  dusty  floor 

The  ghost  of  a  slender  maid, 
Like  the  portrait  hung  on  the  parlor  wall, 

In  a  gown  of  flowered  brocade, 
And  ivory  laces,  as  fine  as  air, 
And  a  diamond  star  in  her  powdered  hair. 

A  handsome  gallant  beside  her  bent 

In  the  country  dress  of  old, 
He  wore  a  ring  with  a  ruby  set 

And  a  waistcoat  flowered  with  gold, 
Ruffled  wrists  and  a  ribboned  cue, 
Silver  buckles  and  coat  of  blue. 

"What  hast  thou  shut  in  thy  lily  hand 

With  a  tassel  of  azure  tied?" 
"A  valentine  left  on  my  window  sill 

In  the  gray  of  the  dawn,"  she  cried, 
"And  I  love  the  lover  who  rode  so  far 
In  the  deep  snows,  under  the  morning  star." 

Then  he  pressed  his  arm  to  her  rounded  waist 

And  his  lips  to  her  rosy  ear: 
"Oh,  lean  thy  head  to  my  breast,  I  pray, 

And  I'll  tell  thee  a  secret,  dear! 
It  was  I  who  rode  with  the  valentine 
So  fast  and  so  far  —  and  thou  art  mine!" 

A  mouse  ran  over  the  broken  boards, 

Behold!  when  I  looked  again 
For  the  squire  in  the  gay  blue  coat 

And  the  maid  with  the  silken  train, 
There  was  nothing  there  but  the  shadows  tall 
And  the  cobwebs  long  on  the  windy  wall. 

But  I  dropped  a  tear  on  the  musty  book 

And  I  tenderly  laid  it  down 
With  the  treasure,  deep  in  the  cedar  chest, 

In  the  folds  of  a  faded  gown, 
And  left  it  there  on  the  lavender  leaves 
And  ashes  of  roses,  under  the  eaves. 


144  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

For  I  thought  of  a  youth  with  soft  brown  eyes 

And  how  I  had  vexed  him  sore. 
The  dim,  dead  lovers  —  they  touched  my  heart, 

And  so  I  was  cold  no  more; 
For  love  is  the  same  as  long  ago, 
Grandmother's  valentine  told  me  so. 

MINNA  IRVING. 

A  GEOGRAPHIC  QUESTION 

A  MAIDEN  once,  with  eyes  of  blue, 

And  mischief  a  suggestion, 
Propounded  all  her  friends  unto 

A  geographic  question. 
"Why  all  degrees  of  latitude 

Were  longer  at  th'  equator?" 
Their  answers  brought  beatitude 

And  highly  did  elate  her: 

For  Mr.  Smithson  talked  to  her  — 

With  knowledge  was  he  sated  — 
"'T  was  due  to  a  parabola," 

He  wisely  demonstrated; 
And  Mr.  Whyte,  he  murmured  much 

Of  "radial  defections," 
While  Robinson,  with  dainty  touch, 

Discoursed  of  conic  sections; 

Then  Mr.  Browning  flowery  grew, 

And  filled  himself  with  glory 
By  telling  much  more  than  he  knew  — 

It  was  a  wondrous  story! 

But  all  sit  now  disconsolate, 

And  cut  a  woful  figure  — 
They've  learned,  when  it  was  all  too  late, 

Degrees  down  there  are  n't  bigger. 

ANONYMOUS. 

AT  THE  CONCERT 

THE  leader  waved  his  light  baton; 

The  frail  bows  of  the  players  trembled; 
A  flash!  a  flare!  the  height  was  won 

And  all  the  hosts  of  song  assembled! 
Resistlessly  the  overture 

Swept  on  and  captured  sense  and  reason; 
Then  Chloe  smiled  —  success  was  sure 

For  this  first  concert  of  the  season. 


DRAWING-ROOM    AND    BOUDOIR     145 

The  chairs  were  filled  with  charming  folk, 

And  beauty  vied  with  wealth  and  talent; 
The  graciousness  the  music  woke 

Was  showered  on  some  near-by  gallant. 
The  symphonies  were  often  light, 

But  Chloe's  heart  seemed  ever  lighter; 
Tschaikowsky's  dancing  themes  were  bright, 

But  Chloe's  eyes  were  always  brighter. 

As  on  and  on  the  music  sped, 

Or  paused  in  sombre  note  and  measure, 
It  seemed  as  if  all  sense  had  fled 

Save  that  of  vague,  ecstatic  pleasure, 
Which  held  the  nerves  in  rhythmic  bonds; 

But  Chloe  stirred  her  golden  tresses 
And  then  I  thought  of  nought  but  blondes 

And  scarlet  plumes  and  silver  dresses. 

RAY  CLARKE  ROSE. 

AN   "OLD  MAID" 

THERE  's  a  spinster  of  thirty-some  years  whose  abode 
Is  at  number  some  hundreds  in  Sheridan  Road, 
And  the  peach-and-cream  lassies  who  live  thereabout 
Trip  by  in  gay  dresses  with  many  a  flout, 
And  giggle  and  whisper  they're  " really  afraid" 
This  time-tempered  lady  will  die  an  "old  maid"! 
Great  heavens!  just  think  what  a  terrible  fate  — 
To  live  and  to  die  a  forlorn  celibate! 

Now,  the  worst  of  all  this  is  the  evident  truth 

That  this  "lone"  maiden  lady  keeps  much  of  her  youth, 

Seems  ever  contented  and  never  to  fret, 

And  laughs  and  is  gay  as  if  free  from  regret! 

There  are  men  at  her  elbow  and  men  at  her  feet, 

And  men  in  fine  turn-outs  wait  out  in  the  street; 

But,  alas!  this  poor  lady  will  certainly  grow 

Much  older,  and  she  is  unmarried,  you  know! 

Too  bad!     'T  is  a  pity!     She's  such  a  nice  girl  — 
Or  spinster —  a  man  must,  indeed,  be  a  churl 
Who  would  fail  to  discover  her  beauty  and  charm! 
Still,  the  oddest  of  all  is  she  shows  no  alarm 
For  this  horrible  fate  that  impends  —  can  it  be 
That  she  ?d  rather  not  marry?     She  said  so  to  me  — 
This  is  quite  confidential :  I  asked  for  her  hand 
And  she  did  n't  seem  just  to  —  well,  you  understand! 

RAY  CLARKE  ROSE. 


146  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

TIMES  AIN'T  WHAT  THEY  WAS 

WHEN  pa  an'  ma  was  married  in  the  days  long  gone  and  dead; 

The  neighbors  sorter  run  the  house  —  Mis'  Grundy  was  the  law, 
When  pa  felt  kinder  bilious,  the  ol'  wood  pile  in  the  shed 

Was  what  he  mostly  needed,  and  he  useter  go  an'  saw; 
An'  ma  kep'  busy  knittin',  makin'  clothes  an'  bread  an'  pies, 

An'  Sis  helped  with  the  dishes  an'  the  baby  an'  the  rest, 
An'  Bub  —  that's  me  —  did  choring,  early  bed  an'  early  rise; 

The  family  was  sleepin'  when  the  sun  was  in  the  west. 

I  got  a  fam'ly  now  'f  my  own,  built  on  a  diff'runt  plan: 

A  gas  bill  once  a  month  instead  o'  that  ol'  hickory  pile; 
Now  when  I  wanter  exercise,  I  take  the  hired  man  — 

He'll  do  me  for  a  caddy  —  an'  I  play  my  golf  in  style; 
An'  mother  —  she  'n'the  hired  help  jest  started  off  on  a  wheel, 

While  sister  whacks  at  tennis  —  tendin'  baby  ain't  her  song. 
An'  brother  rows  and  kicks  and  swims,  his  muscle  is  like  steel, 

They  ain't  no  chores  to  keep  him   down  —  he's  too  bejig- 
gered  strong! 

I  dunno  what  the  baby  does,  but  sorter  'spect  the  nurse 

Goes  sprintin'  with  policemen  when  she  takes  him  out  to  walk. 
He  certainly  is  lookin'  's  if  he  oughter  come  in  firs'  — 

He  's  singin'  coon  songs  long  before  he's  old  enough  to  talk; 
Them  good  ol'  times  wan't  none    too  good  —  they  knew  no 
better  then, 

To  work  was  pious  an'  't  was  always  wickedness  to  play; 
But  now  pur  women's  stronger  an'  we're  better  lookin'  men, 

An'  boys  an'  girls  grow  bigger  —  an'  I  'm  glad  to  see  the  day. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ON  THE  WAY  HOME 

"Dm  N'T  you  like  the  party,  dear,  to-night?" 
(Silence.     She  turns  her  head  the  other  way.) 

"What  have  I  done?  Is  n't  my  tie  on  right?" 
(No  answer  —  but  her  eyes  have  things  to  say.) 

"Is  it  because  I  danced  with  Mrs.  Chatt? 

Her  husband  made  me,  really."     (She  is  dumb.) 
"Surely  you  can't  be  jealous  that  I  sat 

Out  with  the  silly  Grimes  girl?"     (She  is  mum.) 

"I  know  I  talked  too  much  of  me  and  mine  — 
Was  that  the  reason?"  (Perfect  stillness  reigns.) 

"But  I  was  proud  —  you  simply  looked  divine! 
Can't  you  forgive  me?"  (Speechless  she  remains.) 


DRAWING-ROOM    AND    BOUDOIR     147 

"Was  it  because  I  stumbled  in  that  waltz? 

I  always  do  some  fool  thing."     (Not  a  word.) 
"I  did  n't  mean  to  lose  your  smelling  salts." 

('T  would  seem  the  protestations  were  unheard.) 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Gad  then  told  you  that  I  said 

Her  dress  should  have  the  prize?  "    (Hark!  'T  is  the  wind.) 
"Or  was  it  that  I  cut  Ned  Killer  dead? 

He  's  a  mere  rake.     Look  at  me,  dear."     (She  's  blind.) 

"Well,  I  confess  I  ought  to  be  accursed 

For  talking  shop  at  dinner."     (She  is  mute.) 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  used  the  wrong  fork  first." 
(Her  hush  and  nature's  hush  are  absolute.) 

"Oh,  very  well,  then,  since  you're  bound  to  sneer, 
I  can  fight,  too,  if  quarrelling  's  such  fun." 

She  speaks!     She  smiles!     "Why,  I'm  not  angry,  dear, 
I  merely  wished  to  know  what  you  had  done." 

CHESTER  FIRKINS. 

A  DAUGHTER  OF   THE  REVOLUTION 

ARISING  slowly  in  his  place, 

Our  gallant  Washington 
Bowed  to  his  host  with  courtly  grace, 

His  courtly  visit  done. 

The  little  daughter  hastened  o  'er, 

In  service  and  in  pride, 
Beside  the  narrow-panelled  door 

And  held  it  open  wide. 

"A  better  office,  little  maid," 
He  spoke,  and  touched  her  chin. 

She  shyly  raised  her  eyes,  and  said, 
"Please,  sir,  to  let  you  in." 

ANONYMOUS. 

AFTER  READING  A  CHAPTER  BY  HENRY  JAMES 

AND  after  Angelina,  laying  down 

The  book  —  that  is  —  she  often  thought  it  so; 
Had  recognized,  as  one  might  say,  a  frown 

(Could  she  translate  the  answer  Yes  and  No?) 
Had  taken  up  the,  as  it  were,  effect 

Of,  Angelina's  training  had  been  such 


148  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

That  yet,  however  harsh  and  circumspect  — 
Even  her  father  deemed  it  overmuch  — 

One  does  these  things  unconsciously,  I  think, 
Thus  in  proportion  as  we  don't  we  do; 

So  pausing  rather  vaguely  on  the  brink 
She  wondered,  was  it  by,  and  if  so,  to? 

For  Angelina  Hale  was  not  that  kind 

Of  girl,  and  it  would  be  unfair  to  say 
With  such  an  intuition  in  her  mind 

As  to  these,  those  —  does  it  matter  either  way?  — 
Which  she  had,  of  a  purpose,  I  suppose; 

And  they  do  have  so  many  ways  to  choose, 
A  point  which  she  remembered,  last  arose 

The  day  she  left  her  arctic  overshoes, 
And  then,  of  course,  that  does  n't  count  for  one 

Whose  very  instinct  (is  it  wrong  to  try?) 
Since  yes,  what  other,  lesser  souls  have  done, 

For  which,  with  what,  is  oftenest  done  by. 

And  thus  reflecting,  Angelina  Hale 

Reviewed  the  thoughts  that  she  had  read  about, 
Then  with  a  smile  triumphant,  wan,  and  pale 

Sank  back  upon  her  pillows,  quite  fagged  out. 

ANONYMOUS. 


A  LOST   TALISMAN 

AMONG  the  palms  the  Thing  was  lost  — 
That  gilded  circlet,  rich  embossed, 

And  marked,  "  From  Ned  to  Bessie." 
" A  belt? "  —  oh,  no !     "A  ring? "  —  not  yet ! 
An  ample  g  —  oodness!     In  her  set 
They're  always  swell  and  dressy. 

RAY  CLARKE  ROSE. 


Part  3% 
MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD 


I  DWELL  amid  the  city  ever, 
The  great  humanity  which  beats 
Its  life  along  the  stony  streets, 
Like  a  strong  and  unsunned  river 

In  a  self-made  course. 
I  sit  and  hearken  while  it  rolls, 

Very  sad  and  very  hoarse 
Certes  is  the  flow  of  souls; 

Infinitest  tendencies 
By  the  finite,  pressed  and  pent, 
In  the  finite,  turbulent; 

How  we  tremble  in  surprise 
When,  sometimes,  with  an  awful  sound, 
God's  great  plummet  strikes  the  ground! 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


MAN'S  BROTHERHOOD 


RECESSIONAL 

GOD  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old  — 
Lord  of  our  far  flung  battle  line  — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget. 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies, 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart, 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget!     Lest  we  forget! 

Far  called  our  navies  melt  away  — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire  — 
Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre ! 
Judge  of  the  nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget. 

If  drunk  with  sight  of  power  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe, 
Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  law, 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget!     Lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard  — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
.  And  guarding,  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people,  Lord ! 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 
151 


152  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

DAT 'S   RIGHT,   AIN'T   IT? 

De  rich  am  gettin'  richer 

An'  de  po'  am  gettin'  po'rer. 

De  mansion  's  gettin'  taller. 

But  the  shanty  's  gettin'  smaller. 
De  market  basket  's  small 
De  po'  man  am  a-totin' 
An'  hits  all  brought  about 
By  de  way  yo  's  been  a-votin'. 
Dat  's  right, 
Ain't  it? 

De  wood  am  gettin'  sca'ce, 
An'  de  coal  am  gettin'  higher, 
An'  day  say  dat  ole  Monopoly 
Is  puttin'  out  my  fire. 

De  wage  am  mighty  small, 

Fo'  de  plane,  an'  saw,  an'  mallet, 

An'  it 's  all  brought  about  by 

De  castin'  ob  yo'  ballot. 
Dat's  right, 
Ain't  it? 

Den  stop  de  emergrashun, 
Stop  emergrants  a-votin', 
An'  limitate  de  riches  dat 
De  millionaire  am  totin'. 
Dat 's  right  becase  de  po'  folks 
Am  not  er  gwine  to  stand  it, 
An'  by  en  by  humanity 
Will  rise  up  an'  demand  it. 
Dat 's  right, 
Ain't  it? 

BEN  KING. 

OSMAN  AGA'S  DEVOTION 

WHEN  the  sands  of  night  are  run 

And  the  toilers  go  their  ways 
At  the  earliest  peer  of  sun, 

Osman  Aga  kneels  and  prays. 

When  the  streets  by  noon  are  burned, 
And  the  rooftops  scorch  and  blaze, 

With  his  brow  toward  Mecca  turned, 
Osman  Aga  kneels  and  prays. 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  153 

At  the  purple  shut  of  eve, 

When  the  pilgrim  khanward  strays, 

With  the  Faithful  that  believe, 
Osman  Aga  kneels  and  prays. 

But  meanwhile  this  wag-beard  gray 
Cheats  the  poor  with  spurious  wares, 

So  one  scarce  knows  what  to  say 
In  regard  to  Aga's  prayers. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 

THE  MAN  WITH   THE  HOE 
(Written  after  seeing  the  painting  by  Millet.) 

God  created  man  in  His  own  image;  in  the  image  of  God 
created  He  him.  —  Genesis. 

BOWED  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 

Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 

The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 

And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 

Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture,  and  despair, 

A  thing  that  grieves  not,  and  that  never  hopes, 

Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 

Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 

Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 

Is  this  the  thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 

Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed,  who  shaped  the  suns, 

And  pillared  the  blue  firmament  with  light? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this  — 

More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed  — 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul  — 

More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 
Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 


154  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 
Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 
Plundered,  profane  and  disinherited, 
Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 
A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing,  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortality; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes? 

O  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings  — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is  — 
When  this  dumb  terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 

EDWIN  MARKHAM. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE 
(A  reply) 

Let  us  a  little  permit  Nature  to  take  her  own  way;  she  bet 
ter  understands  her  own  affairs  than  we.  —  Montaigne. 

NATURE  reads  not  our  labels,  "great"  and  "small"; 
Accepts  she  one  and  all 

Who,  striving,  win  and  hold  the  vacant  place; 
All  are  of  royal  race. 

Him,  there,  rough-cast,  with  rigid  arm  and  limb, 
The  Mother  moulded  him, 

Of  his  rude  realm  ruler  and  demigod, 
Lord  of  the  rock  and  clod. 

With  Nature  is  no  "better"  and  no  "worse," 
On  this  bared  head  no  curse. 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  155 

Humbled  it  is  and  bowed;  so  is  he  crowned 
Whose  kingdom  is  the  ground. 

Diverse  the  burdens  on  the  one  stern  road 
Where  bears  each  back  its  load ; 

Varied  the  toil,  but  neither  high  nor  low. 
With  pen  or  sword  or  hoe, 

He  that  has  put  out  strength,  lo,  he  is  strong; 
Of  him  with  spade  or  song 

Nature  but  questions,  —  "This  one,  shall  he  stay?" 
She  answers  "Yea,"  or  "Nay," 

"Well,  ill,  he  digs,  he  sings;"  and  he  bides  on, 
Or  shudders,  and  is  gone. 

Strength  shall  he  have,  the  toiler,  strength  and  grace, 
So  fitted  to  his  place 

As  he  leaned,  there,  an  oak  where  sea  winds  blow, 
Our  brother  with  the  hoe. 

No  blot,  no  monster,  no  unsightly  thing, 
The  soil's  long-lineaged  king; 

His  changeless  realm,  he  knows  it  and  commands; 
Erect  enough  he  stands, 

Tall  as  his  toil.     Nor  does  he  bow  unblest: 
Labor  he  has,  and  rest. 

Need  was,  need  is,  and  need  will  ever  be 
For  him  and  such  as  he; 

Cast  for  the  gap,  with  gnarled  arm  and  limb, 
The  Mother  moulded  him,  — 

Long  wrought,  and  moulded  him  with  mother's  care, 
Before  she  set  him  there. 

And  aye  she  gives  him,  mindful  of  her  own, 
Peace  of  the  plant,  the  stone; 

Yea,  since  above  his  work  he  may  not  rise, 
She  makes  the  field  his  skies. 


156  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

See!  she  that  bore  him,  and  metes  out  the  lot, 
He  serves  her.     Vex  him  not 

To  scorn  the  rock  whence  he  was  hewn,  the  pit 
And  what  was  digged  from  it; 

Lest  he  no  more  in  native  virtue  stand, 
The  earth-sword  in  his  hand, 

But  follow  sorry  phantoms  to  and  fro, 
And  let  a  kingdom  go. 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 

THE  MAN  WITHOUT  THE  HOE 

IN  a  dingy  little  hovel 
Down  beside  a  lonely  meadow 

In  the  wet, 

There  's  a  man  that  never  hopes, 
Never  thinks  enough  in  life 

To  forget. 

He  's  the  owner  of  a  cow, 

And  a  dog, 
In  a  log  pen  by  his  window 

There  's  a  hog. 

He  plants  his  corn  beside  the  house, 

Near  the  door; 
Lets  the  weeds  grow  through  the  cracks 

On  the  floor. 

He  lies  upon  his  bunk  at  night 

Without  fear; 
No  matter  how  hard  the  wind  blows, 

He  does  n't  care. 

He  's  forty  summers  old,  and  is 

Strong  and  fat; 
His  chin  and  forehead  are  alike, 

Dark  and  flat. 

His  coat  and  pants  are  slick  with  age, 

And  his  hat; 
A  collar  ne'er  adorned  his  neck, 

Or  cravat. 


MAN'S   BROTHERHOOD  157 

To  him  the  "rulers,"  "lords,"  and  "kings" 

Are  all  dead; 
The  weight  of  care  has  never  fallen 

On  his  head. 

To  ev'ry  question  filled  with  hope, 

He  answers,  "No"; 
I  'm  prone  to  think  he  's  Markham's  man 

Without  the  hoe. 

GORDON  COOGLER. 


THE  CONTEMPTIBLE  NEUTRAL 

THE  world  was  full  of  battle  — 
The  whole  world,  far  and  wide; 

Men  and  women  and  children 
Were  fighting  on  either  side. 

I  was  sent  from  the  hottest  combat 
With  a  message  of  life  and  death, 

Black  with  smoke  and  red  with  blood, 
Weary  and  out  of  breath. 

Forced  to  linger  a  moment 
And  bind  a  stubborn  wound, 

Cursing  the  hurt  that  kept  me  back 
From  the  fiery  battle  ground  — 

When  I  found  a  cheerful  stranger, 

Calm,  critical,  serene, 
Well  sheltered  from  all  danger, 

Painting  a  battle  scene. 

He  was  cordially  glad  to  see  me  — 
The  coolly  smiling  wretch  — 

And  inquired  with  admiration : 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  make  a  sketch?" 

So  he  had  me  down  in  a  minute, 
With  murmurs  of  real  delight; 

My  "color"  was  "delicious;" 
My  "action"  was  "just  right!" 

And  he  prattled  on  with  ardor 

Of  the  moving  scene  below; 
Of  the  "values"  of  the  smoke- wreaths, 

And  the  "splendid  rush  and  go;" 


158  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Of  the  headlong  desperate  charges 
Where  a  thousand  lives  were  spent: 

Of  the  "massing"  in  the  foreground 
With  the  " middle  distance"  blent. 

Said  I:  "You  speak  serenely 

Of  the  living  death  in  view; 
These  are  human  creatures  dying — 

Are  you  not  human  too? 

"This  is  a  present  battle 

Where  all  men  strive  to-day; 
How  does  it  chance  you  sit  apart? 

Which  is  your  banner  —  say?" 

His  fresh  cheek  blanched  a  little, 

And  he  answered  with  a  smile 
That  he  fought  not  on  either  side; 

He  was  watching  a  little  while. 

"Watching,"  said  I,  "and  neutral! 

Neutral  in  times  like  these!" 
And  I  plucked  him  off  his  sketching  stool 

And  brought  him  to  his  knees. 

I  stripped  him  of  his  travelling  cloak 

And  showed  him  to  the  sky  — 
By  his  uniform  —  a  traitor! 

By  his  handiwork  —  a  spy! 

I  dragged  him  back  to  the  field  he  left  — 

To  the  fate  he  was  fitted  for. 
We  have  no  place  for  lookers-on, 

While  all  the  world  's  at  war! 

CHARLOTTE  PERKINS  STETSON. 

THE   UNMERCENARIES 

JOLLY  good  fellows  who  die  for  the  death  of  it, 
Fight  for  the  fun  of  it,  live  for  the  breath  of  it; 
Catch  at  the  instant  and  drink  of  the  minute, 
Thinking  not,  caring  not  what  may  be  in  it; 

Foolish  good  fellows  (and  all  of  us  know  it), 
Wasting  their  midnights  in  being  a  poet, 
Giving  their  lives  to  the  life  of  humanity, 
Dreaming  of  fame  —  that  extreme  of  insanity; 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  159 

Silly  good  fellows  who  labor  for  science, 
Lighting  the  way  for  their  race's  reliance. 
Bearing  their  burdens  with  mien  of  a  stoic, 
Dreaming  of  gratitude  —  myth  unheroic; 

All  the  good  fellows  who  think  not  of  wages, 
Foreign,  in  part,  to  the  thing  that  our  age  is, 
Giving  no  heed  to  the  weight  of  the  coffer, 
Taking  what  Fate  and  not  men  have  to  offer; 

They  and  the  like  of  them,  here  's  a  health  to  them! 
Taint  of  our  lower  aims  never  undo  them, 
They  will  survive  us  all,  passed  through  the  portal; 
Life  often  jests  at  what  death  makes  immortal! 

ANONYMOUS. 

SUFFRAGE  MARCHING  SONG 

(The  suffrage  song  which  won  the  Noble  prize  of  $100) 

Lo!  the  nations  have  been  toiling  up  a  steep  and  rugged  road, 
Resting  oft  by  stream  and  mountain,  bent  beneath  the  heavy 

load, 
Gazing  toward  the  coming  freedom  from  the  anguish  and  the 

goad, 

For  the  hope  has  led  them  on. 

Glory,  glory,  halleluia ! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
For  the  hope  has  led  them  on. 

In  the  western  strong  republic,  under  skies  pierced  through  and 

through 

With  a  light  of  nobler  foresight,  life  becomes  more  rich  and  true, 
And  a  mightier  strength  is  given  to  the  hands  that  strive  and  do, 
While  the  hope  still  leads  men  on. 

Mother,  prophetess,  and  holy,  through  the  ages  of  the  clan, 
Uttering  words  of  potent  wisdom  in  the  ear  of  struggling  man, 
Woman  rose  and  strode  beside  him  'mid  the  dangers  of  the  van, 
Kindling  hope  that  led  him  on. 

Now  again  that  voice  is  ringing  through  the  ever  brightening  air, 
And  her  wakened  heart  is  calling  unto  labors,  fine  and  fair, 
That  shall  weave  the  robes  of  beauty  which  mankind  in  peace 
shall  wear, 

Since  the  hope  is  leading  on. 


160  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Forth  they  step  and  march  together,  forth  the  man  and  woman 

go, 

To  the  plains  of  vast  achievement,  where  unfettered  rivers  flow, 
And  their  work  shall  stand  exalted,  and  their  eyes  shall  shine 

and  glow, 

With  the  hope  that  led  them  on. 

Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
Glory,  glory,  halleluia! 
For  the  hope  still  leads  them  on! 

Louis  J.  BLOCK. 

LIVINGSTONE 

ON  dusky  shoulders 

Ported  through  hot  Afric  fens, 
Where  the  slaver's  victim  moulders 

By  the  ugly  Soko  glens, 
Behold  the  man  — 

Within  his  stretcher  lying, 
Body  torn, 
Thin  and  worn, 
But  hopefully  defying 
Death! 

With  feeble  fingers 

Grasping  still  his  honest  pen, 
With  a  trust  that  never  lingers 

Writes  he  'midst  the  murky  fen, 
Of  what  he  sees 

And  thinks  and  feels  there  lying, 
Body  torn, 
Thin  and  worn, 
But  hopefully  defying 
Death! 

Though  the  miles  before  him 
Are  a  thousand  dangerous, 
Though  the  sun,  a  furnace  o'er  him, 

Burns  his  flesh  all  feverous, 
He  presses  on 

Within  his  stretcher  lying, 
Body  torn, 
Thin  and  worn, 
But  hopefully  defying 
Death! 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  161 

No  white  man  near  him 

As  he  breathes  his  last  brave  word, 
No  loved  voice  to  kindly  cheer  him, 

By  immortal  courage  stirred, 
Unflinchingly 

He  meets  his  fate  there  lying, 
Body  torn, 
Thin  and  worn, 
But  hopefully  defying 
Death! 

The  world  'B  a  debtor 

For  his  life  of  fortitude, 
For  a  million  lives  made  better 

By  his  struggle  with  the  brood 
Of  Afric's  ills, 

Within  his  stretcher  lying, 
Body  torn, 
Thin  and  worn, 
But  hopefully  defying 
Death! 

And  beyond  the  present, 

When  a  people  great  as  ours 
Fill  that  land  with  cities  pleasant, 
Patriot  bards  will  scatter  flowers 
On  Livingstone, 

Within  his  stretcher  lying, 
Body  torn, 
Thin  and  worn, 
But  hopefully  defying 
Death! 

FRANCIS  BROOKS. 

"AS  THYSELF" 

SEEST  thou  a  fault  in  any  other? 
Look  in,  not  out;  he  is  thy  brother. 
Thou  hast  it  too  —  and  yet  another. 

Hear'st  thou  a  word  against  a  woman? 
Stand  out!  how  else  canst  thou  be  true  man? 
Christ  heard  such  word  —  and  Christ  was  human. 

Know'st  thou  a  life  sans  good  and  beauty? 
Hold  not  aloof!  'T  will  not  pollute  thee. 
God  's  in  that  life;  this  is  His  duty. 

ANONYMOUS. 


162  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

A   CRY  FROM   THE  GHETTO 

THE  roaring  of  the  wheels  has  filled  my  ears, 

The  clashing  and  the  clamor  shut  me  in; 
My  self,  my  soul,  in  chaos  disappears, 

I  cannot  think  or  feel  amid  the  din. 
Toiling  and  toiling  and  toiling  —  endless  toil, 

For  whom?     For  what?     Why  should  the  work  be  done? 
I  do  not  ask,  or  know.     I  only  toil. 

I  work  until  the  day  and  night  are  one. 

The  clock  above  me  ticks  away  the  day. 

Its  hands  are  spinning,  spinning,  like  the  wheels. 
It  cannot  sleep  or  for  a  moment  stay. 

It  is  a  thing  like  me,  and  does  not  feel. 
It  throbs  as  though  my  heart  were  beating  there  — 

A  heart?     My  heart?     I  know  not  what  it  means. 
The  clock  ticks,  and  below  we  strive  and  stare, 

And  so  we  lose  the  hour.     We  are  machines. 

Noon  calls  a  truce  and  ending  to  the  sound, 

As  if  a  battle  had  one  moment  stayed  — 
A  bloody  field!     The  dead  lie  all  around; 

Their  wounds  cry  out  until  I  grow  afraid. 
It  comes  —  the  signal !     See,  the  dead  men  rise, 

They  fight  again,  amid  the  roar  they  fight, 
Blindly,  and  knowing  not  for  whom,  or  why, 

They  fight,  they  fall,  they  sink  into  the  night. 

J.  W.  LYNN,  from  the  Yiddish  of  MORRIS  ROSENFELD. 

REVENGE 

REVENGE  is  a  naked  sword; 

It  has  neither  hilt  nor  guard; 
Wouldst  thou  wield  this  brand  of  the  Lord? 

Is  thy  grasp,  then,  firm  and  hard?  -  ^ 

But  the  closer  thy  clutch 'of  the  blade, 
The  deadlier  blow  thou  wouldst  deal, 

Deeper  wound  in  thy  hand  is  made  — 
It  is  thy  blood  reddens  the  steel. 

And  when  thou  hast  dealt  the  blow  — 

When  the  blade  from  thy  hand  has  flown  — 

Instead  of  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

Thou  may'st  find  it  sheathed  in  thine  own. 

CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB. 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  163 

CHRISTMAS  OUTCASTS 

CHRIST  died  for  all,  and  on  the  hearts  of  all 

Who  gladly  decorate  their  cheerful  homes 
At  Christmastide,  this  blessed  truth  should  fall, 
That  they  may  mix  some  honey  with  the  gall 

Of  those  to  whom  a  Christmas  never  comes. 

The  poor  are  everywhere  in  nature's  course, 

Yet  they  may  still  control  some  sweetened  crumbs, 

No  matter  what  they  lack  in  hearts  or  purse; 

But  there  are  those  whose  better  fate  is  worse, 
To  whom  no  day  of  Christmas  ever  comes. 

The  man  who  wildly  throws  away  his  chance, 

An  outcast  from  all  cheerful  hearts  and  homes, 
Who  may  not  mingle  where  the  happy  dance, 
Nor  gain  from  loving  eyes  one  kindly  glance, 
Is  he  to  whom  no  Christmas  ever  comes. 

The  man  condemned  in  hidden  ways  to  grope, 
At  sight  of  whom  each  kindly  voice  is  dumb, 
Or  he  whose  life  is  shortened  in  its  scope, 
Who  waits  for  nothing  but  the  hangman's  rope, 
Is  he  to  whom  a  Christmas  cannot  come. 

Christ  died  for  all;  he  came  to  find  the  lost, 

Whether  they  hide  in  palaces  or  slums  — 
No  matter  how  their  lines  of  life  are  crossed. 
And  they  who  love  him  best  will  serve  him  most 

By  helping  those  to  whom  no  Christmas  comes. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  POOR  MAN'S  AUTOMOBILE 

WHEN  the  day's  stint  is  finished,  and  master  and  man 

May  find  their  enjoyment  wherever  they  can; 

Ere  the  lamps  are  a-lit  at  the  coming  of  night, 

And  the  freshness  and  coolness  of  even  invite 

The  heart  to  gain  courage  and  concord  anew 

By  draughts  of  the  gloaming  perfumed  by  the  dew, 

Then,  skimming  the  pavements,  the  world  is  a-wheel  — 

And  my  wifie  and  I  take  our  automobile. 

A  nod  to  our  buttoned,  blue-girded  chauffeur, 
And  away  we  are  flying,  with  none  to  demur  — 
Away  through  the  thoroughfares,  mile  after  mile, 
And  turning  the  corners  in  dexterous  style, 


164  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

With  the  voice  of  our  watchful,  imperious  gong 
Proclaiming  our  nearness,  and  warning  the  throng; 
While  leaning  like  monarchs,  ensconced  in  our  seat, 
We  haughtily  gaze  at  the  sights  of  the  street. 

Or,  Sundays,  when  all  of  the  city  is  out 
With  bicycles,  carriages,  gliding  about, 
We  call  for  our  auto,  and  entering  in, 
Are  off  on  a  joyous,  enrapturing  spin 
(And  who  would  forbid  us  an  innocent  lark!) 
For  rest  and  for  pleasure,  to  lake  or  to  park, 
Our  vehicle  one  which  the  lightnings  equip, 
And  a  touch  of  the  lever  in  place  of  a  whip. 

Of  course  it  may  seem  (as  I  do  not  deny) 

That  we  're  rather  extravagant,  wifie  and  I, 

For  people  whose  income,  in  dollars  and  cents, 

Is  barely  sufficient  for  needful  expense. 

But,  bless  you,  although  so  pretentious  we  are, 

When  we  're  "taking  our  auto"  we  're  boarding  a  car! 

And  that  is  our  horseless  conveyance,  you  see  — 

But  I  doubt  if  a  nabob  is  gayer  than  we. 

EDWIN  L.  SABIN. 

CHILD  LABOR 

A  CREATURE  wan,  of  dwarfed  physique, 
Lack-lustre  eye,  and  shrunken  limb, 
With  frame  bowed  prematurely  down, 
Age  counterfeited  in  its  frown, 

Denied  the  freedom  of  the  sun, 
Robbed  of  fresh  air  and  wholesome  food; 
Of  parents'  proper  love  bereft; 
Hands  preternaturally  deft, 
That  dainty  fabrics  may  be  spun. 

In  stature  and  in  years  a  child, 
In  pain's  experience  senile, 
Its  heritage  of  childhood  sold 
That  its  employer  gather  gold; 
Its  thought  the  cunning  of  the  wild. 

The  thing  that  might  have  been  a  man 
Or  woman,  blessing  all  the  race, 
Is  made  a  criminal  or  bawd, 
For  cost  of  yacht  or  jewel  gawd, 
To  mock  creation's  nobler  plan. 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  165 

Between  the  thing  that  might  have  been 
And  this  the  thing  that  greed  has  made, 
There  lies  the  evil  profit  which 
Makes  nations  poor,  and  persons  rich, 
The  product  of  a  gilded  sin. 

Look  on  this  creature,  dour  and  grim, 
The  winner  of  your  luxury, 
Smug  idler  and  your  lady  fair; 
This  hostage  God  left  to  your  care — 
Behold  your  work  and  answer  him! 

But  ere  He  calls  you  to  the  bar 
Beyond  the  grave  your  tale  to  tell, 
You  will  be  tried  by  fellow  men, 
And  so  atone  to  them,  that  then 
You  will  not  fear  the  threat  of  hell. 

ANONYMOUS. 

TO  LABOR 

SHALL  you  complain  who  feed  the  world? 
Who  clothe  the  world? 
Who  house  the  world? 
Shall  you  complain  who  are  the  world, 
Of  what  the  world  may  do? 
As  from  this  hour 
You  use  your  power, 
The  world  must  follow  you. 

The  world's  life  hangs  on  your  right  hand, 
Your  strong  right  hand, 
Your  skilled  right  hand; 
You  hold  the  whole  world  in  your  hand  — 
See  to  it  what  you  do! 
Or  dark  or  light, 
Or  wrong  or  right, 
The  world  is  made  by  you! 

Then  rise  as  you  ne'er  rose  before, 
Nor  hoped  before, 
Nor  dared  before, 

And  show  as  ne'er  was  shown  before, 
The  power  that  lies  in  you! 
Stand  all  as  one 
Till  right  is  done! 
Believe  and  dare  and  do! 

CHARLOTTE  PERKINS  STETSON. 


166  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

A   POLITICAL  CHARACTER 

IN  him  the  elements  are  strangely  blent  — 

Two  consciences  he  hath,  two  hearts,  two  souls, 

On  double  wrongs  and  errors  he  is  bent, 
And  ne'er  appears  except  in  dual  roles. 

He  hears  both  sides,  but  't  is  with  different  ears; 

Sees  both  sides  of  the  shield  —  with  different  eyes; 
Between  two  rights  with  nice  precision  steers, 

This  double-headed  king  of  compromise. 

Not  his  to  hold  the  scales  of  life  and  death  — 

Not  his,  this  nebulous  invertebrate, 
Who  heeds  and  scorns  at  once  the  vulgar  breath, 

Nor  knows  the  fixity  which  stamps  the  great, 

The  kingly  souls  with  instinct  for  the  right, 
Vibrant  to  conscience  and  her  trumpet  call, 

With  clarity  of  vision,  inward  light, 

And  strength  to  follow  out  their  thought  through  all. 

ISRAEL  ZANGWILL. 

DESPOILED 

IF  I  could  read  my  title  clear,  among  the  wolves  that  yelp, 
To  just  the  fulness  of  my  day,  without  a  statesman's  help, 
I  'd  gladly  pay  what  taxes  a  simple  state  might  need, 
Its  honors  well  to  shelter,  its  comfort  well  to  feed. 

Nor  would  I  for  my  portion  a  vast  domain  demand, 

Of  either  sky  or  water,  or  wide,  unpeopled  land. 

A  cottage  on  a  hillside,  a  garden  and  a  spring, 

With  many  birds  of  welcome  words,  would  be  about  the  thing. 

But  all  my  days  are  deeded  to  men  of  many  fees, 

Who,  of  my  loving  labor,  build  their  unlovely  ease, 

And  all  my  nights  are  mortgaged  in  dark,  unhappy  ways, 

To  those  who  drive  my  drudging  through  all  my  deeded  days. 

They  taught  me  in  the  little  school,  whose  memories  are  dear, 
To  love  the  institutions  I  've  lately  come  to  fear, 
For,  said  the  teacher,  guilelessly,  "Our  native  land  is  free, 
And  all  our  duty  is  to  serve  its  progress  loyally." 

But  service  is  a  stupid  thing  if  service  shall  but  gain 
From  sore  and  shameful  servitude  but  courage  to  complain. 
And  if  our  famed  "equality"  one  pocket  fatly  fills, 
And  leaves  a  million  empty,  a  nation's  honor  spills. 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  167 

They  give  us  law  for  logic,  made  up  of  bonds  and  bribes, 
The  kind  some  sleek  attorney  as  " right  divine"  describes. 
But  when  our  hunger  happens  its  prior  right  to  claim, 
They  measure  out,  for  trimmings,  a  year  of  ironed  shame. 

There  is  n't  much  to  trouble  an  opportunist  now. 

They  've  got  the  land  allotted,  and  won't  an  inch  allow; 

But  if  you  want  a  mortgage  —  to  exercise  your  wit, 

And  busy  you,  at  cent-per-cent,  —  they  '11  gladly  part  with  it. 

If  I  could  read  my  title,  in  all  the  din  and  dust, 
I  would  n't  want  their  millions,  with  human  blood  a-rust; 
Nor  palaces,  nor  plunder,  nor  perquisites  of  pride, 
With  all  the  things  of  manhood  abandoned  and  denied. 

But  what  I  seek  forever,  is,  where  the  truth  is  kept, 

For  all  its  holy  guardians  at  lying  are  adept. 

It  is  n't  legislated  in  any  halls  of  state, 

And  as  for  honest  voting  —  who  pays  the  highest  freight? 

If  I  could  read  my  title  —  what  is  a  title,  pray? 
Why,  Fellow,  they  are  holding  it,  and  you  're  the  stuff  they  weigh. 
A  vineyard  on  the  hillside,  a  sungleam  in  the  spring  — 
Well,  if  you  're  not  tight-muzzled,  they're  just  a  song  to  sing. 

GEORGE  E.  BOWEN. 

THE  CLERKS* 

I  DID  not  think  that  I  should  find  them  there 
When  I  came  back  again;  but  there  they  stood, 
As  in  the  days  they  dreamed  of  when  young  blood 

Was  in  their  cheeks  and  women  called  them  fair. 

Be  sure,  they  met  me  with  an  ancient  air  — 
And  yes,  there  was  a  shop-worn  brotherhood 
About  them;  but  the  men  were  just  as  good, 

And  just  as  human  as  they  ever  were. 

And  you  that  ache  so  much  to  be  sublime, 

And  you  that  feed  yourselves  with  your  descent, 
What  comes  of  all  your  visions  and  your  fears? 
Poets  and  kings  are  but  the  clerks  of  time, 
Tiering  the  same  dull  webs  of  discontent, 
Clipping  the  same  sad  alnage  of  the  years. 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON. 

*From  "Children  of  the  Night."     Copyright,  1905,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


168  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

BEYOND  THE  BARS 

WITHIN  my  cell  are  singing  sounds  —  a  robin's  call,  afar. 
Within  this  gloom  are  glories  white  —  a  light  of  sun  or  star. 
Within  this  death-hole  breathes  the  air  of  clover-fields  a-hum. 
What  rare  and  radiant  riches  to  the  prisoned  spirit  come! 

Within  my  cell  glows  ruddy  wine  —  distilled  of  vineyards  dear. 
Within  this  fear  are  lance  and  shield  —  what  valor  gives  me  cheer. 
Within  defeat  pride  will  not  yield  —  a  rebel  heritage. 
And  youth  is  armed  with  years  forgot,  to  crush  the  force  of  age. 

Within  my  cell  stands  liberty  —  with  many  a  flag  of  joy. 
Within  this  death  is  freedom  born  —  its  tyrant  to  destroy. 
Within  this  hush  the  bugles  blow  —  to  stir  the  hearts  of  men. 
And  still  I  muse,  in  chains  that  chafe:  "Will  there  be  prisons 
then?" 

GEORGE  E.  BOWEN. 

THE  WANDERER 

I  MET  a  waif  i'  the  hills  at  close  of  day. 
He  begged  an  alms;  I  thought  to  say  him  nay. 
What  was  he?     "Sir,  a  little  dust,"  said  he, 
"Which  life  blows  up  and  down,  and  death  will  lay." 

I  gave  —  for  iove  Of  beast  and  hill  and  tree, 
And  all  the  dust  that  has  been  and  shall  be. 

WILLIAM  CANTON. 

WHERE  TYRANTS  PERISH 

SAIL  on,  Columbus!  sail  right  onward  still, 
O'er  watery  waste  of  trackless  billows  sail, 
Nor  let  a  doubting  race  make  thy  heart  fail 

Till  a  New  World  upglow  beneath  thy  will. 

Let  storms  break  forth  and  driving  winds  be  shrill; 
But  be  thou  steadfast  when  all  others  quail, 
Still  looking  westward  till  the  night  grow  pale, 

And  the  long  dreamed-of  land  thy  glad  eyes  fill. 

Great  world-revealer,  sail!     God  leads  the  way 
Across  the  gloomy,  fathomless  dark  sea, 
Of  man  unvisited  until  this  day, 

But  which  henceforth  for  the  whole  world  shall  be 
The  road  to  nobler  life  and  wider  sway, 
Where  tyrants  perish  and  all  men  are  free. 

JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING. 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  169 

THE  EAGLE  AND   THE  LION 

ALONE  on  his  rock  nigh  a  hundred  years 

He  has  drowsed  with  the  sun  in  his  eyes. 
Dumb  watch  o'er  the  yellow  sand  was  his  care, 

Far  west  to  the  far  sunrise. 
But  now  he  stretches  his  tawny  length  — 

There  is  stir  in  the  dusk  of  the  hundred  years  — 
Distant  the  sounds  and  great  his  strength, 

So  he  dozes  again  with  listening  ears. 

Alone  the  young  eagle  above  the  rock 

Swings  hither  and  thither,  to  and  fro, 
Watching  the  smoke  and  the  dust  of  the  earth, 

Watching  the  free  wind  blow. 
Drowsed  too  —  but  now  he  ruffles  his  crown, 

And  the  evening  light  in  his  eyes  gloweth  red 
As  he  mounts  to  mark  the  sun  go  down, 

A  century's  sun,  'neath  the  thunderhead. 

"Be  we  brothers  or  brothers  be  we  not?" 

To  him  on  the  rock  comes  down  the  cry. 
And  he  answers,  "Yea,  we  are  kin  and  kin, 

Twain  kings  of  the  earth  and  the  sky. 
Thou  of  the  lightnings  of  heaven  hast  ward, 

I  of  the  powers  of  God's  great  deep 
Gather  the  thunders.     Bare  men's  children  the  sword? 

'T  is  time  that  we  rouse  us  from  our  sleep." 

Woe  when  the  eagle  sends  cry  to  heaven 

And  stoops  to  the  cloud  where  the  tempest  lies! 
And  woe  when  the  lion  shall  rise  on  his  rock, 

Storm-wind  in  his  mane  and  wrath  in  his  eyes! 
Then  brother  with  brother  and  blood  with  blood 

We  shall  stand.     Alien  peoples,  beware! 
Hold  we  the  dread  powers  of  fire  and  flood, 

Of  earth,  and  of  sea,  and  of  air. 

GEORGE  FREDERICK. 

TO   THE  MONEY-GETTER 

O  MAN  of  morbid  soul  and  small, 

Thou  Dives,  thing  of  wealth  and  hate! 
Think'st  thou  this  narrow  world  is  all? 

And  if  it  be,  thou'rt  at  the  call, 

While  here,  of  vice  insatiate, 

O  man  of  morbid  soul  and  small! 


170  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

A  vice  that  hath  thee  for  a  thrall 

Unmoved  by  love,  accursed  of  fate  — 
Think'st  thou  this  narrow  world  is  all? 


In  letters  hast  thou  naught  withal  — 

In  greed  alone  thy  mind  is  great; 
O  man  of  morbid  soul  and  small! 

Art  cannot  move  thee  from  thy  stall; 

Thy  piety's  commensurate; 
Think'st  thou  this  narrow  world  is  all? 

Alas,  when  Death  shall  lay  his  pall 

O'er  thee,  and  it  is  all  too  late! 
O  man  of  morbid  soul  and  small, 
Think'st  thou  this  narrow  world  is  all? 

ANONYMOUS. 

PIPER,  PLAY 

Now  the  furnaces  are  out, 

And  the  aching  anvils  sleep; 
Down  the  road  the  grimy  rout 
Tramples  homeward  twenty  deep. 
Piper,  play!     Piper,  play! 

Though  we  be  o'erlabored  men, 
Ripe  for  rest,  pipe  your  best! 
Let  us  foot  it  once  again! 

Bridled  looms  delay  their  din; 

All  the  humming  wheels  are  spent; 
Busy  spindles  cease  to  spin; 

Warp  and  woof  must  rest  content. 
Piper,  play!    Piper,  play! 
For  a  little  we  are  free! 
Foot  it,  girls,  and  shake  your  curls, 
Haggard  creatures  though  we  be! 

Racked  and  soiled  the  faded  air 

Freshens  in  our  holiday; 
Clouds  and  tides  our  respite  share; 
Breezes  linger  by  the  way. 
Piper,  rest!    Piper,  rest! 

Now,  a  carol  of  the  moon! 
Piper,  piper,  play  your  best! 
Melt  the  sun  into  your  tune! 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  171 

We  are  of  the  humblest  grade; 

Yet  we  dare  to  dance  our  fill: 
Male  and  female  were  we  made,  — 
Fathers,  mothers,  lovers  still! 
Piper,  softly;  —  soft  and  low; 

Pipe  of  love  in  mellow  notes, 
Till  the  tears  begin  to  flow, 
And  our  hearts  are  in  our  throats! 


Nameless  as  the  stars  of  night 

Far  in  galaxies  unfurled, 
Yet  we  yield  unrivalled  might, 
Joints  and  hinges  of  the  world ! 
Night  and  day!  night  and  day! 

Sound  the  song  the  hours  rehearse! 
Work  and  play!  work  and  play! 
The  order  of  the  universe! 

Now  the  furnaces  are  out, 

And  the  aching  anvils  sleep; 
Down  the  road  a  merry  rout 
Dances  homeward,  twenty  deep. 
Piper,  play!     Piper,  play! 

Wearied  people  though  we  be, 
Ripe  for  rest,  pipe  your  best! 
For  a  little  we  are  free! 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

ARISE,    YE  MEN  OF  STRENGTH  AND  MIGHT 

ARISE,  ye  men  of  strength  and  might, 

Arise,  ye  bold  and  brave, 
Arise,  for  ending  is  the  night,  — 

Who  sleeps  now  is  a  slave  — 
Arise  and  view  the  glorious  sight 
Of  darkness  yielding  unto  light, — 

Arise,  ye  bold  and  brave! 

Arise,  ye  men  of  heart  and  brain 

Arise,  ye  heroes  all  — 
A  craven  he  who  would  abstain 

When  soundeth  freedom's  call. 
Come,  listen  to  the  glorious  strain, 
Join  in  and  chant  the  grand  refrain,  — 

Arise,  ye  heroes  all! 

CHARLES  JAMES. 


172  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

IN  POVERTY  STREET 

IT  's  dirty,  ill-smelling, 

Its  fellows  the  same, 
With  hardly  a  dwelling 

Deserving  the  name; 
It 's  noisy  and  narrow, 

With  angles  replete  — 
Not  straight  as  an  arrow 

Is  Poverty  Street. 

Its  houses  are  battered, 

Unheated  and  small, 
While  children  all  tattered 

Respond  to  the  call; 
There  's  nothing  inviting 

That 's  likely  to  greet 
The  stranger  alighting 

In  Poverty  Street. 

But  something  redeeming 

Lies  under  it  all; 
Ambition  is  dreaming 

In  some  little  hall; 
Some  mother  is  praying 

Successes  may  meet 
The  boy  who  is  playing 

In  Poverty  Street. 

Some  fathers,  depriving 

Themselves  of  all  joys, 
Are  valiantly  striving 

For  sake  of  their  boys; 
Some  sisters  and  brothers, 

In  sacrifice  sweet, 
Are  living  for  others 

In  Poverty  Street. 

And  ever  and  always 

Is  charity  shown, 
In  alleys  or  hallways 

None  suffer  alone; 
For  sorrow  no  blindness 

The  suffering  meet; 
There  's  millions  —  in  kindness  - 


In  Poverty  Street. 


MAN'S    BROTHERHOOD  173 

Though  lacking  in  glory 

And  lacking  in  art, 
There  'a  many  a  story 

Appeals  to  the  heart; 
And  years  that  are  blighting 

With  tales  of  defeat 
Find  heroes  still  fighting 

In  Poverty  Street. 

ELLIOTT  FLOWER. 


ST.  ANTHONY'S  SERMON   TO  THE  FISHES 

ST.  ANTHONY  at  church 

Was  left  in  the  lurch, 

So  he  went  to  the  ditches 

And  preached  to  the  fishes; 

They  wiggled  their  tails, 

In  the  sun  glanced  their  scales. 

The  carps,  with  their  spawn, 
Are  all  hither  drawn; 
Have  opened  their  jaws, 
Eager  for  each  clause. 

No  sermon  beside 

Had  the  carps  so  edified. 

Sharp-snouted  pikes, 
Who  keep  fighting  like  tikes, 
Now  swam  harmonious 
To  hear  St.  Antonius. 

No  sermon  beside 

Had  the  pikes  so  edified. 

And  that  very  odd  fish, 

Who  loves  fast-days,  the  codfish  — 

The  stock-fish,  I  mean  — 

At  the  sermon  was  seen. 

No  sermon  beside 

Had  the  cods  so  edified. 

Good  eels  and  sturgeon, 
Which  aldermen  gorge  on, 
Went  out  of  their  way 
To  hear  preaching  that  day. 

No  sermon  beside 

Had  the  eels  so  edified. 


174  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Crabs  and  turtles  also, 
Who  always  move  slow, 
Made  haste  from  the  bottom, 
As  if  the  devil  had  got  'em. 

No  sermon  beside 

Had  the  crabs  so  edified. 

Fish  great  and  fish  small, 
Lords,  lackeys,  and  all, 
Each  looked  at  the  preacher, 
Like  a  reasonable  creature: 

At  God's  word, 

They  Anthony  heard. 

The  sermon  now  ended, 

Each  turned  and  descended; 

The  pikes  went  on  stealing, 

The  eels  went  on  eeling; 

Much  delighted  were  they, 
But  preferred  the  old  way. 

The  crabs  are  backsliders, 

The  stock-fish  thick-siders, 

The  carps  are  sharp-set,  — 

All  the  sermon  forget: 

Much  delighted  were  they, 
But  preferred  the  old  way. 

ANONYMOUS. 

NEW   YORK 

THE  low  line  of  the  walls  that  lie  outspread 

Miles  on  long  miles,  the  fog  and  smoke  and  slime. 
The  wharves  and  ships  with  flags  of  every  clime, 

The  domes  and  steeples  rising  overhead! 

It  is  not  these.     Rather  is  it  the  tread 

Of  the  million  heavy  feet  that  keep  sad  time 

To  heavy  thoughts,  the  want  that  mothers  crime, 

The  weary  toiling  for  a  bitter  bread, 

The  perishing  of  poets  for  renown, 

The  shriek  of  shame  from  the  concealing  waves. 
Ah,  me!  how  many  heartbeats  day  by  day 

Go  to  make  up  the  life  of  the  vast  town! 
O  myriad  dead  in  unremembered  graves! 
O  torrent  of  the  living  down  Broadway! 

RICHARD  HOVEY. 


THE   LANDS   OF   LONG   AGO 


THE  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago!* 
O  drowsy  winds  awake  and  blow 
The  snowy  blossoms  back  to  me, 
And  all  the  buds  that  used  to  be ! 
Blow  back  along  the  grassy  ways 
Of  truant  feet,  and  lift  the  haze 
Of  happy  summer  from  the  trees 
That  trail  their  tresses  in  the  seas 
Of  grain  that  float  and  overflow 
The  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago! 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILET. 

*From    "Farm   Rhymes."     Copyright,    1901.     Used   by  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


Part  % 
THE  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO 


LITTLE  GIRL  OF  LONG  AGO 

LITTLE  girl  of  Long  Ago, 
Eyes  of  blue  and  hair  of  tow, 

Cheeks  as  red  as  sunset  skies, 

Lighting  up  your  laughing  eyes, 
How  I  loved  you,  did  you  know? 
Little  girl  of  Long  Ago! 

I  was  shy  and  modest  then, 
You  were  eight  and  I  was  ten; 

You  were  smaller,  much,  than  I, 

But  you  towered,  to  the  sky. 
You  were  far  above  me,  far 
As  the  distant  shining  star; 

But  I  loved  you,  even  so, 

Little  girl  of  Long  Ago. 

Little  girl  of  Long  Ago, 
We  are  older,  as  you  know; 

Years  have  lengthened  since  we  stood 

In  the  meadow  near  the  wood, 
Where  we  quarrelled,  you  and  I, 
O'er  a  trifle,  foolishly. 

And  I  left  you  sobbing  so, 

Little  girl  of  Long  Ago. 

Love  has  brought  me  home  again; 
We  are  more  than  eight  and  ten, 

And  my  heart  longs  for  you  so, 

Little  girl  of  Long  Ago! 
Here 's  the  meadow  and  the  wood, 
Here's  the  very  spot  we  stood; 

Ah!   What  means  that  blushing  brow? 

Little  girl  of  Here  and  Now! 

JOE  CONE. 

177 


178  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

THE  SHOOGY-SHOO 

I  DO  be  thinking,  lassie,  of  the  old  days  now; 
For  oh!  your  hair  is  tangled  gold  above  your  Irish  brow; 
And  oh!  your  eyes  are  fairy  flax!  no  other  eyes  so  blue; 
Come  nestle  in  my  arms,  and  swing  upon  the  shoogy-shoo. 

Sweet  and  slow,  swinging  low,  eyes  of  Irish  blue, 
All  my  heart  is  swinging,  dear,  swinging  here  with  you; 
Irish  eyes  are  like  the  flax,  and  mine  are  wet  with  dew, 
Thinking  of  the  old  days  upon  the  shoogy-shoo. 

When  meadow-larks  would  singing  be  in  old  Glentair, 
Was  one  sweet  lass  had  eyes  of  blue  and  tangled  golden  hair; 
She  was  a  wee  bit  girleen  then,  dear  heart,  the  like  of  you, 
When  we  two  swung  the  braes  among,  upon  the  shoogy-shoo. 

Ah  well,  the  world  goes  up  and  down,  and  some  sweet  day 
Its  shoogy-shoo  will  swing  us  two  where  sighs  will  pass  away; 
So  nestle  close  your  bonny  head,  and  close  your  eyes  so  true, 
And  swing  with  me,  and  memory,  upon  the  shoogy-shoo. 

Sweet  and  slow,  swinging  low,  eyes  of  Irish  blue, 
All  my  heart  is  swinging,  dear,  swinging  here,  with  you; 
Irish  eyes  are  like  the  flax,  and  mine  are  wet  with  dew, 
Thinking  of  the  old  days  upon  the  shoogy-shoo. 

WINTHROP  PACKARD. 

IN  CALM  CONTENT 

A  LITTLE  smoke  lazed  slowly  up  from  my  big  cigar, 

The  club  chair  was  both  soft  and  warm,  as  club  chairs  sometimes 

are. 
The  bottle  hobnobbed  with  the  glass  just  where  my  arm  was 

bent, 

And  there  was  naught  for  me  to  want  —  unless  it  were  content. 
For  longingly  I  gazed  away,  all  through  a  golden  haze, 
Back  to  the  time  that  comes  but  once  —  back  to  my  boyhood 

days; 

I  closed  my  eyes  to  better  see  that  happy  land  of  charm, 
The  long-lost  days,  when,  free  from  care,  I  lived  back  on  the 

farm. 

I  slowly  stretched  my  weary  frame  —  who  knocked  upon  the 

door? 

"Get  up!     Get  up!  you  lazybones,  it's  nearly  half-past  four!" 
The  night  before  I'd  sparking  been  and  reached  home  rather 

late  — 


THE  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO     179 

To-day  I  'd  plough  the  old  stump  lot  through  hours  more  than 

eight. 
The  days  went  by  and  took  their  time,  those  "days  of  golden 

charm," 

And  Satan  found  no  mischief  for  me  down  there  on  the  farm; 
And  some  days  it  was  piping  hot  and  some  days  it  would  rain, 
But  always  there  was  work  to  do  —  of  jobs  an  endless  chain. 
I  picked  potatoes  without  stint  —  the  sun  bored  through  my 

back; 

I  swung  the  knife  against  the  corn  until  my  arm  did  rack; 
I  sweated  at  the  old  grindstone,  I  cleaned  the  stable  floors, 
And  did  some  eight-and-forty  things  that  lightly  are  called 

"chores." 

One  blessed  night,  'most  tired  to  death,  I  tumbled  into  bed  — 
And  woke  to  see  an  angel's  face  on  Sambo's  sable  head; 
He  brought  another  bottle  in,  relit  my  big  cigar, 
And  back  I  leant  in  calm  content  that  things  are  as  they  are. 

ANONYMOUS. 

BALLAD  OF  THE  PRIMROSE  WAY 

LIFE,  through  the  arc  of  a  century 

Cronies  two  we  have  faced  the  road, 
Cheek  by  jowl  since  the  first  young  day 

When  the  primrose  path  before  us  glowed; 

Mind  you  the  wonders  the  vista  showed? 
Cloth  of  gold  where  the  sunlight  lay  — 

Mind  you  the  cowslip  balls  we  stowed? 
Glinting  guerdons  of  Primrose  Way. 

Life,  you  're  a  faithful  votary, 

Years  and  a  day  to  keep  the  code; 
Yours  was  a  rare  knight-errantry, 

For  hobble-de-hoy  my  fancy  rode. 

But,  then  the  cowslip  crop  we  sowed! 
Crowfoot  furrows  we  reap  to-day; 

Carols  have  changed  to  a  palinode, 
And  lost  forever  is  Primrose  Way. 

UEnvoi 

Youth,  of  the  morning  sandals  shod, 
List  to  a  graybeard  elegy: 

Man  but  once  is  a  demigod  — 
Earth's  Olympus  is  Primrose  Way. 

ROSE  EDITH  MILLS. 


180  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

A  RECOLLECTION 

OH,  what  'B  become  of  all  those  good  old  elocution  days, 
We  had  before  they  introduced  these  dratted  problem  plays? 
Remember  how  we  used  to  sit  with  slowly  welling  tears, 
A-listening  'bout  the  boy  that  lay  a-dying  in  Algiers? 
Remember  how  they  used  to  tell  in  low  and  saddened  tone, 
About  the  world  that  shared  your  joy  but  let  you  weep  alone? 

Remember  how  we  used  to  wait  in  apprehensive  fright 

Lest  curfew  might  not,  after  all,  omit  to  ring  to-night? 

The  story  of  the  " Polish  Boy,"  I  seem  to  hear  it  yet 

As  plain  as  when  I  heard  it  first,  the  while  my  cheeks  were  wet. 

Recall  that  tale  beginning  thus  (it  made  us  boys  boo-hoo) : 

"Down  in  the  Lehigh  Valley,  sir,  me  and  my  people  grew"? 

"The  Village  Blacksmith"  was  a  piece  I  thought  was  mighty 

good; 

Do  you  recall  the  bridge  on  which  we  once  at  midnight  stood? 
Remember  how  the  May  Queen  said,  in  accents  soft,  yet  clear, 
"You  must  wake,  and  call  me  early;  call  me  early,  mother 

dear"? 

The  recollection  makes  me  gulp  and  fills  my  eyes  with  haze  — 
Oh,  what 's  become  of  all  those  good  old  elocution  days? 

ANONYMOUS. 

SUCCESS 

I  DRINK  the  foaming  chalice, 

The  cup  of  earth's  renown. 
I  hear  the  people's  plaudits, 

I  wear  the  city's  crown. 

And  I  look  back,  recalling 

The  path  whereby  I  came  — 
From  the  old  dreams  of  boyhood, 

On  to  this  goal  of  fame. 

The  old,  kind  dreams  of  boyhood, 

So  generous  and  brief: 
How  long  before  the  noonday 

They  withered  as  a  leaf! 

The  dreams  of  eager  service, 

Of  perfect  brotherhood, 
Of  a  vast  people's  freedom: 

A  universal  good! 


THE  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO      181 

A  vain  remembrance  stirs  me, 

A  trouble  alien  — 
I  see  the  men  and  women 

Who  lived  and  died  for  men. 

And  on  my  life's  achievement 

They  look  with  steadfast  eyes, 
Where  dwells  the  deep  compassion 

I  bartered  for  earth's  prize. 

They  pass,  a  mighty  army, 

From  every  race  and  age  — 
The  just  who  died  for  justice 

And  asked  no  other  wage. 

The  chivalrous,  the  loyal, 

Who  drew  diviner  breath  — 
They  whom  the  word  dreamed  conquered, 

Who  conquered  sin  and  death. 

And  though  the  people's  laurels 

About  my  brow  I  bind  — 
I  know  they  sought  a  city 

That  I  shall  never  find. 

They  sought  a  timeless  city, 

From  fear  and  hate  withdrawn. 
Its  light  upon  their  faces 

Was  dearer  than  the  dawn. 

They  climbed  the  large,  steep  pathway, 

By  saints  and  heroes  trod, 
To  the  home  of  the  ideal, 

And  to  the  mount  of  God. 

Peace !  't  is  the  idlest  vision 

That  e'er  was  deemed  sublime; 
That  spiritual  city 

Shall  ne'er  be  reared  in  time. 

I  face  the  glowing  present, 

And  all  my  sky  is  clear  — 
The  story  of  my  triumph 

The  nations  pause  to  hear. 

Only  in  dreams  there  rises 

The  city  alien, 
Where  pass  the  men  and  women 

Who  lived  and  died  for  men. 

MAY   KENDALL. 


182  THE   HUMBLER  POETS 

THE   VAGABONDS 

WHAT  saw  you  in  your  flight  to-day, 
Crows  a-winging  your  homeward  way  ? 

Went  you  far  in  carrion  quest, 
Crows  that  worry  the  sunless  west  ? 

Thieves  and  villains,  you  shameless  things ! 
Black  your  record  as  black  your  wings. 

Tell  me,  birds  of  the  inky  hue, 
Plunderous  rogues  —  to-day  have  you 

Seen  with  mischievous,  prying  eyes 
Lands  where  earlier  suns  arise  ? 

Saw  you  a  lazy  beck  between 

Trees  that  shadow  its  breast  in  green, 

Teased  by  obstinate  stones  that  lie 
Crossing  the  current  tauntingly  ? 

Fields  a-bloom  on  the  farther  side 
With  purple  clover  lying  wide, 

Saw  you  there,  as  you  circled  by, 
Vale-environed  a  cottage  lie  — 

Girt  about  with  emerald  bands, 
Nestling  down  in  its  meadowlands  ? 

Saw  you  this  on  your  thieving  raids  ? 
Speak  —  you  rascally  renegades. 

Thieved  you  also  away  from  me 
Olden  scenes  that  I  longed  to  see  ? 

If,  O  crows !  you  have  flown  since  morn 
Over  the  place  where  I  was  born, 

Forget  will  I,  how  black  you  were 
Since  dawn,  in  feather  and  character; 

Absolve,  will  I,  your  vagrant  band, 
Ere  you  enter  your  slumber-land. 

E.   PAULINE   JOHNSON. 


THE  LANDS  OF  LONG   AGO  183 

THE  OLD  HOUSE 

COLD  and  cheerless,  bare  and  bleak, 
The  old  house  fronts  the  shabby  street; 
And  the  dull  windows  eastward  gaze, 
As  their  cobwebbed  brows  they  raise, 
Just  as  though  they  looked  to  see 
What  had  become  of  you  and  me 
And  all  the  other  children. 

The  dust  drifts  o'er  the  garret  floor, 
The  little  feet  tread  there  no  more ; 
But  o'er  the  stage,  still  standing  there, 
The  Muse  first  stalked  with  tragic  air 
And  whispered  low  to  you  and  me 
Of  golden  days  that  were  to  be 
For  us  and  all  the  children. 

Good-bye,  old  house !     Thy  tattered  cloak 
Is  fringed  with  moss  and  gray  with  smoke; 
Within  thy  walls  we  used  to  see 
A  gaunt  old  wolf  named  Poverty; 
Yet  from  thy  rafters'  dingy  bars 
A  ladder  stretched  up  to  the  stars  — 
For  us  and  all  the  children. 

GRACE  DUFFIE  BOYLAN. 

A   BOY'S  WHISTLE 

IF  I  could  whistle  like  I  used  when  I  was  just  a  boy, 
And  fill  the  echoes  just  plumb  full  of  that  old-fashioned  joy, 
I  guess  I  would  be  willin'  then  to  turn  my  back  on  things 
An'  say  farewell  to  scenes  down  here  and  try  my  angel  wings; 
O  just  once  more  to  pucker  up  an'  ripple  soft  an'  trill 
Until  the  music  seemed  to  fall  against  the  far-off  hill 
Like  dew  falls  on  a  half-blown  rose,  till  it  gets  full  an'  slips 
Like  jewels  twinklin',  tinklin'  down  from  pink,  bewitchin'  lips. 

Oh,  yes,  if  I  could  whistle  now  like  I  could  whistle  then! 
Just  pucker  up  these  grim  old  lips  an'  turn  things  loose  again! 
I'd  like  to  sit  up  on  the  knoll  where  trees  was  all  around, 
Just  sit  there  punchin'  my  bare  toes  into  the  smelly  ground 
An'  trillin'  just  the  same  old  tune  I  used  to  trill  of  yore, 
With  all  the  verve  and  ecstasy  that  won't  come  back  no  more, 
Until  I'd  see  old  brown-throat  thrush  come  stealin'  from  his 

bush 
An'  look  around,  like  he  would  say,  say  to  the  whole  world: 

"Hush!" 


184  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

If  I  could  whistle  now  I'd  like  to  go  along  the  road 
Awakin'  with  my  whistle  all  the  scenes  that  once  I  knowed; 
Just  sendin'  ripplin'  music  through  the  tamaracks  an'  pines 
An'  stirrin'  all  the  blossoms  on  the  mornin'  glory  vines; 
Just  go  sendin'  all  about  me,  all  behind  me  an'  before, 
First  loud  an'  shrill  as  anything  an'  then  a-gittin'  lower, 
The  same  old  whistle  that  was  mine,  the  same  old  carol  shrill 
That  used  to  bid  the  day  good-night  an'  mock  the  whippoorwill. 

I  saw  a  boy  go  past  just  now  —  his  cheeks  was  like  balloons  — 
An'  oh,  the  air  was  rendered  sweet  by  old  remembered  tunes! 
An'  oh,  the  world  sat  lightly  on  that  childish  happy  imp! 
His  trousers  was  all  patched  behind,  his  hat  was  torn  an'  limp, 
While  one  big  toe  that  had  been  stubbed  was  twisted  in  a  rag; 
But  oh,  that  imp  stepped  high  an'  proud,  with  shoulders  full  of 

brag, 

An'  whistled  in  the  same  old  way  that  I  was  wont  to  do, 
Till  my  old  heart  was  in  the  tunes  the  little  rascal  blew. 

If  I  could  whistle  like  he  did  —but  now  there  's  something  gone! 
The  trill  is  gone,  the  skill  is  gone!     Sometimes  when  I'm  alone 
I  pucker  an'  purse  up  my  lips  an'  try,  an'  try,  an'  try, 
An'  then  the  noise  my  old  lips  makes  ain't  nothin'  but  a  sigh. 
It  ain't  no  thing  of  learnin',  it  can't  be  contrived  by  art, 
A  boy  must  be  behind  it,  an'  a  great  big  boyish  heart; 
A  boy  just  out  of  heaven  must  go  whistlin'  of  the  song; 
No  use  in  tryin'  when  we're  old,  we  've  been  away  too  long! 

JUDD  MORTIMER  LEWIS. 

YOU  HAVE  FORGOTTEN 

THERE  's  a  hurt  in  the  heart  of  the  night, 
There  's  an  ache  where  a  song  should  be, 

At  the  core  of  the  dawn  is  blight  — 
For  you  have  forgotten  me. 

O  the  weight  of  the  dragging  morn 

When  my  sorrow  lifts  its  head  — 
O  the  curse  of  a  day  still-born 

With  my  soul's  wound  running  red! 

O  hours  that  are  bitten  through 
With  the  wormwood  of  memory  — 

When  my  sore  heart  calls  for  you  — 
Though  yours  has  forgotten  me! 

ANGELA  MORGAN. 


THE  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO      185 

7N   THE   PROCESSION 

SPRING  comes:  and  baseball,  robust  flower,  in  every  meadow's 

seen; 

Summer:  and  tennis  bourgeons  white  upon  the  shining  green; 
Autumn:  and  football  shakes  at  us  chrysanthemum-like  hair; 
Winter:  and  even  ice  is  left  a-bloom  with  skaters  fair. 
Four  times  a  year  the  earth  is  glad  with  miscellaneous  joy; 
As  often  sighs  the  man  who  was  —  and  now  is  not  —  a  boy. 

ANONYMOUS. 

FIRST  LOVE 

MY  neighbor  yonder,  at  her  door, 
Looks  out  and  sees  the  bloom, 

Turning  the  formal  park  before 
Into  a  fair  white  room. 

Of  all  her  life  or  ill  or  good, 

This  is  remembered,  — 
An  old  house  set  by  an  old  wood; 

The  lad  she  did  not  wed. 

LlZETTE    WOODWORTH    REESE. 

"THERE  WERE  GIANTS  IN  THOSE  DAYS" 

YES,  yes,  my  son,  I  have  no  doubt 

They  're  wonderful,  these  boys 
Who  play  football,  hockey,  quoits, 

With  such  astounding  noise; 
No  doubt  they  're  heroes  just  as  great 

As  any  Homer  sung  — 
I  only  say,  you  should  have  seen 

The  boys  when  I  was  young. 

Our  football  team  was  formed  of  those 

Who  averaged  seven  feet, 
And  every  one  a  Hercules 

In  every  way  complete; 
While  each  could  run  a  hundred  yards 

In  seven  seconds  flat,  — 
Although,  of  course,  the  backs,  you  know, 

Were  fleeter  far  than  that. 

To  get  upon  our  baseball  nine 

You  had  to  throw  a  ball 
Three  hundred  yards,  though  many  held 

That  nothing  much  at  all; 


186  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

And  many  a  time  1 7ve  seen  the  ball 

When  batted  go  so  high 
The  batter  made  a  home  run  first 

Before  they  caught  the  fly. 

And  hockey  —  well,  we  'd  skate  so  fast 

We  could  n't  see  our  feet; 
While  as  for  jumping,  Henry  Spring 

Jumped  right  across  the  street:  — 
No,  no,  I  don't  dispute  the  fact 

You  boys  are  mighty  fine, 
But  then,  of  course,  you  did  n't  know 

The  boys  of  'Fifty-Nine. 

WILLIAM  WALLACE  WHITELOCK. 

CHRISTMAS  LONG   AGO 

LONG,  long  ago!  oh,  heart  of  youth  unheeding, 
As  speed  the  years  with  love  and  light  aglow, 

And  like  a  dream  in  memory  receding, 
They  swiftly,  softly  go. 

Ah!  when  the  intervening  clouds  are  lifted  — 
The  misty  veil  that  hides  them  from  my  sight! 

Then  bygone  scenes  beneath  the  curtain  rifted 
Gleam  fair,  as  now  —  to-night. 

There  is  the  dear  old  room,  the  firelight  shining 
On  little  stockings  ranged  in  careful  row; 

Hung  by  the  anxious  owners,  hope  inclining, 
On  Christmas  long  ago. 

In  trundle  bed  and  cot  each  fitful  sleeper 
Is  dream-disturbed  and  tosses  to  and  fro 

Till  lost  in  slumber,  sinking  deeper,  deeper, 
With  happiness  aglow. 

What  gleeful  shouts  and  laughter  wake  the  morning! 

The  "Merry  Christmas"  greetings  linger  sweet 
In  heart  and  brain,  the  misty  past  adorning, 

The  picture  to  complete. 

Each  stocking  yields  its  precious,  trifling  treasures, 
To  curly  pate  and  tot  with  hair  of  tow; 

Ah,  happy  days!  that  saw  such  simple  pleasures 
Such  happiness  bestow. 


THE  LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO     187 

With  merry  jest  and  quip  and  cheery  chatter, 
In  converse  sweet  and  songs  melodious  flow, 

Till  borne  in  state,  embellishing  the  platter, 
The  turkey  enters  slow. 

A  glad  home-coming  time  for  ones  world-weary, 

To  feast  beneath  the  mystic  mistletoe, 
Where  Love  stood  at  the  door  with  welcome  cheery, 

On  Christmas  long  ago. 

Oh,  father,  mother!  names  that  leave  me  never, 
Thy  faces  follow  me  through  weal  and  woe, 

As  loving,  sweet,  and  true  as  smiled  they  ever, 
On  Christmas  long  ago. 

In  vain  I  try  the  rising  sobs  to  smother, 
My  heart  repressed  so  long  asserts  her  right 

To  tardy  tears,  to  there  await  another, 
Another  Christmas  night. 

ANNE  H.  WOODRUFF. 

A  SCHOOL  COMPANIONSHIP 

SEVEN  years,  seven  happy,  careless  years 

We  sat  together,  you  and  I, 
Knew  the  same  hopes,  the  self-same  fears, 
Shared  the  same  joys,  shed  the  same  tears, 

And  were  companions  utterly. 

Who  now  can  say  what  part  of  you 

Is  mine,  or  yours  what  part  of  me, 
So  long  our  comradeship,  so  true? 
One  song,  one  book,  one  play,  we  grew 

Past  brotherhood,  so  near  were  we. 

Now  you  are  taken,  I  am  left, 

And  more  than  years  between  us  roll; 

Yet  am  I  not  wholly  bereft  — 

Too  close  our  union  to  be  cleft, 
Too  single  not  to  be  one  soul. 

A  share  of  you  lives  on  in  me, 

A  share  of  me  is  lost  to  view; 
Half  of  those  seven  years  is  free 
Beyond  this  life,  a  half  I  see 

Within  my  heart,  still  shared  with  you. 

ANONYMOUS. 


188  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

THE  CHOP-HOUSE  IN  THE  ALLEY 

TALK  about  old  Roman  banquets, 

Blow  about  old  Grecian  feeds, 
Where  the  ancient,  paunchy  warriors 

Toasted  their  heroic  deeds! 
They  were  gustatory  classics  — 

Still  a  longing  I  confess 
For  the  chop-house  in  the  alley 

When  the  paper  's  gone  to  press. 

Peacock's  tongues  are  very  dainty, 

Served  upon  a  golden  plate, 
Crowns  of  roses  for  the  victors, 

While  the  whipped  barbarians  wait! 
Let  old  Horace  sing  their  praises  — 

Still  a  longing  I  confess 
For  the  chop-house  in  the  alley 

When  the  paper  's  gone  to  press. 

There  we  sit  for  hours  together, 

Wit  and  laughter  never  fail. 
Up  from  cellars  dim  and  dusty 

Yellow  Henry  brings  the  ale. 
There  we  sit  and  chaff  and  banter  — 

Envy  no  old  heathen's  mess, 
At  the  chop-house  in  the  alley, 

When  the  paper  's  gone  to  press. 

Delve  in  problems  philosophic  — 

How  did  Adam  lose  his  rib? 
What 's  the  chance  of  war  in  Europe? 

Has  the  Herald  scooped  the  Trib? 
Let  the  millionaire  grow  sadder, 

While  my  credit  grows  no  less 
At  the  chop-house  in  the  alley, 

When  the  paper  's  gone  to  press. 

Till,  untimed  by  eyes  that  sparkle, 

From  the  lake  the  sun  leaps  up, 
And,  'mid  many  a  roaring  banter, 

Big  Steve  drinks  his  stirrup-cup! 
Those  were  days  we  all  remember, 

Those  were  nights  we  all  must  bless, 
At  the  chop-house  in  the  alley, 

When  the  paper  's  gone  to  press. 

HENRY  M.  HYDE. 


THE   LANDS   OF   LONG   AGO  189 

IN  DAYS  GONE  BY 

IN  days  gone  by  when  you  were  here 

I  little  heeded  what  you  said; 
I  watched  the  skies  above  me  clear, 

I  listened  to  the  thrush  instead. 

To  this  same  spot  my  feet  are  led 

By  thoughts  of  you  another  year; 
The  self-same  pine  tree  rose  o'erhead 

In  days  gone  by  when  you  were  here. 

Their  slender  forms  to-day  they  rear 

Aloft  in  the  same  beauty  spread, 
But  ah!     The  thrush's  song  I  fear!  — 

I  little  heeded  what  you  said. 

And  now,  as  starving  man  for  bread, 
I  'd  spring  to  catch  one  word  of  cheer, 

Yet  when  with  love  my  heart  you  fed 
I  watched  the  skies  above  me  clear! 

Once  more  on  the  same  pine  leaves,  sere 
And  fragrant  'neath  the  summer's  tread, 

I  lie  and  think  with  many  a  tear, 
"I  listened  to  the  thrush  instead!" 

I  listened  to  the  thrush  instead, 

Yet  could  I  now  one  accent  hear 
Of  that  loved  voice  forever  fled!  .  .  . 
I  knew  not  that  you  were  so  dear 
In  days  gone  by! 

LILLA  CABOT  PERRY. 

AN  OLD  PICTURE 

THROUGH  many  a  year  a  picture  dear 

Hung  just  above  my  bed; 
It  plainly  showed  a  shady  road 

That,  curving  gently,  led 
Past  shrub  and  tree,  till  I  could  see, 

Beside  a  blossoming  vine, 
My  mother  stand,  as  once  she  stood 
When  she  was  young,  and  I  was  good, 

In  days  all  sun  and  shine. 


190  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

I  saw  her  there,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

When  I  drove  off  to  school; 
I  knew  the  bliss  of  her  fond  kiss 

On  that  deep  porch  and  cool; 
And  every  night  the  blessed  sight 

Of  her  above  my  bed 
Consoled  me  for  the  boyish  woes 
Of  absence  —  comforted  I  rose 

When  my  brief  prayer  was  said,  — 

The  little  prayer  she  taught  me  there 

As  I  knelt  in  the  room 
Beside  her  knee,  while  I  could  see 

The  twining  vine  in  bloom; 
And  every  night  in  that  dim  light 

I  clambered  o'er  my  bed 
To  kiss  the  picture  and  kiss  her, 
As  she  'd  kissed  her  small  traveller 

Leaving  the  old  homestead. 

The  change  and  strife  of  later  life, 

The  years  that  leave  me  gray, 
Have  taken,  too,  that  pictured  view; 

But  cannot  take  away 
The  memory  so  dear  to  me, 

That  fond  and  wistful  joy: 
There  stands  my  home,  and  mother  's  there, 
So  young,  so  good,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

And  I  'm  her  little  boy. 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 

LONG  AGO  AND  FAR  AWAY 

LOVELY  the  cheer  of  long  ago  — 

Long  ago  and  far  away! 
Memories  golden  roses  strow  — 
Lovely  the  cheer  of  long  ago  — 
Over  the  dreams  that  rise  and  flow 

Far  in  the  hills  of  yesterday. 
Lovely  the  cheer  of  long  ago  — 

Long  ago  and  far  away! 

CULVER  VAN  SLYCKE. 


Part 
BETWEEN    DARK   AND    DAYLIGHT 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 

SUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  to  sleep 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 

ALFRED  LORD  TENNYSON. 


Part 
BETWEEN  DARK  AND  DAYLIGHT 


TWILIGHT 

SPIRIT  of  Twilight,  through  your  folded  wings 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  averted  face, 
And  rapturous  on  a  sudden,  my  soul  sings, 

"Is  not  this  common  earth  a  holy  place?" 

Spirit  of  Twilight,  you  are  like  a  song 

That  sleeps,  and  waits  a  singer,  —  like  a  hymn 

That  God  finds  lovely  and  keeps  near  Him  long, 
Till  it  is  choired  by  aureoled  cherubim. 

Spirit  of  Twilight,  in  the  golden  gloom 

Of  dreamland  dim  I  sought  you,  and  I  found 

A  woman  sitting  in  a  silent  room 

Full  of  white  flowers  that  moved  and  made  no  sound. 

These  white  flowers  were  the  thoughts  you  bring  to  all, 
And  the  room's  name  is  Mystery  where  you  sit, 

Woman  whom  we  call  Twilight,  when  night's  pall 
You  lift  across  our  earth  to  cover  it. 

OLIVE  CUSTANCE. 

APPROACH  OF  NIGHT 

BY  the  yellow  in  the  sky, 
Night  is  nigh. 

By  the  murk  on  mead  and  mere, 
Night  is  near. 

By  one  faint  star,  pale  and  wan, 
Night  comes  on. 

By  the  moon,  so  calm  and  clear, 
Night  is  here. 

CLARENCE  URMY. 
193 


194  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

HOMEWARD 

CLOUDS  crimson-barred 
Like  the  woods  red-scarred 
On  a  hill-slope  in  the  fall; 

A  wild,  shrill  note 
From  a  sea-bird's  throat 
And  a  heron's  mournful  call; 

A  murmuring  reach 
With  a  curving  beach, 
Like  an  eyebrow  of  the  sea; 

A  prow  up-curled, 
A  sail  half-furled, 
And  the  peace  of  a  sheltered  lee; 

A  sudden  hush 
And  the  last  deep  flush 
Of  dusk  in  the  swarthy  west; 

A  fringe  of  sedge 
Near  the  water's  edge, 
And  the  cot  where  my  loved  ones  nest; 

A  sweet,  low  call, 
And  a  faint  footfall, 
And  a  form  as  I  swiftly  come; 

Near  mine  a  face, 
Then  the  tender  grace 
Of  a  kiss.  —  And  I  am  home! 

GUSTAVB 

A   TWILIGHT  SONG 

WHEN  swallows  fly 

On  wistful  wings, 
And  the  rose-flushed  sky 

The  darkness  brings, — 
Sing,  shadowy  pines, 

Of  the  sail-winged  sea, 
And  sing,  O  day, 

Thy  memory. 

When  the  salt  sea  tide 

Returns  again, 
O'er  reaches  wide, 

With  its  sad  refrain,  — 


BETWEEN    DARK   AND    DAYLIGHT       195 

Sing,  wailing  tern, 

The  day  forget, 
To  dreams  return, 

Leave  old  regret. 

When  ways  to  wander 

Allure  no  more, 
Stay,  wind,  to  ponder 

Beside  my  door,  — 
As  some  sea-shell 

Sings  of  the  sea 
With  its  deep  swell, 

Sing  thou  to  me. 

When  twilight  falls, 

And  from  afar 
A  lone  thrush  calls 

The  first  pale  star,  — 
Sing,  wind  of  the  shadows, 

Sing,  wraith  of  the  rain, 
In  the  quiet  meadows, 

To  me  again. 

EDWARD  MASLIN  HULME. 

THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

I  HEAR  the  bells  at  eventide 

Peal  slowly  one  by  one, 
Near  and  far  off  they  break  and  glide, 

Across  the  stream  float  faintly  beautiful 
The  antiphonal  bells  of  Hull; 
The  day  is  done,  done,  done, 
The  day  is  done. 

The  dew  has  gathered  in  the  flowers 

Like  tears  from  some  unconscious  deep, 
The  swallows  whirl  around  the  towers, 

The  light  runs  out  beyond  the  long  cloud  bars, 
And  leaves  the  single  stars; 
'T  is  time  for  sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 
JT  is  time  for  sleep. 

The  hermit  thrush  begins  again, 

Timorous  eremite, 
That  song  of  risen  tears  and  pain, 

As  if  the  one  he  loved  was  far  away: 
"Alas  another  day  — 
"And  now,  Good-night,  Good-night, 
"Good-night." 

DUNCAN  CAMPBELL  SCOTT. 


196  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE 

THE  primrose  blooms  at  eventide, 
And,  where  I  go,  the  highway  side 
It  lights  up  with  its  yellow  blow: 
What  else  it  does  I  do  not  know  — 
Except,  all  day,  with  dust  bestrown 
The  leaves  are  gray,  and,  until  blown, 
The  bud  is  gray,  with  slight  perfume, 
Till  eve  unfolds  a  clean  sweet  bloom. 

It  grows  there  in  the  short  green  grass 
Between  where  foot  and  carriage  pass: 
Where  wheels  might  crush  it,  should  one  ride, 
And  the  horse  startled  sheer  aside. 
It  sprang  up  there,  and  there  hath  grown 
And  made  the  narrow  green  its  own: 
Chose  not  a  place  by  nature  fair, 
But  made  one  so  by  growing  there. 

TIMOTHY  OTIS  PAINE. 

THE  TWO   TWILIGHTS 

Two  twilights  come  to  man, 

His  noon  between: 
Just  when  his  life  began 

Its  morning  sheen; 

Just  when  his  years  run  fast 

And  faster  down, 
Ere  Evening  brings  at  last 

Her  starry  crown. 

'Twixt  the  eternities: 

Morn,  Noon,  and  Night, 
And,  lovelier  far  than  these, 

The  twinned  Twilight. 

ANONYMOUS. 

IN  THE  CONVENT  GARDEN 

WJ|HIN  the  convent  garden,  at  the  dusk 

Of  day,  when  the  pale  yellow  primrose  blows, 

And  mignonette  and  violets  and  musk 

Make  fragrant  all  the  garden's  sweet  repose, 

Near  where  a  wild-rose,  trained  along  the  wall 
Of  mossy  stones,  lets  blossoms  pink  and  sweet 

In  tangled  masses  through  a  crevice  fall, 
A  nun  reclines  upon  a  carven  seat. 


BETWEEN    DARK   AND    DAYLIGHT      197 

Her  long  white  robes  just  touch  the  lavender 
That  borders  all  the  pathways,  which  the  breeze 

Has  carpeted  with  petals  pale  and  fair, 

Blown  like  a  petal  snow  from  almond  trees. 

And  through  the  garden's  hush  there  comes  the  song 
Of  two  gold-throated  nightingales  who  seem  , 

To  sing  their  hearts  out  all  the  evening  long, 
Near  where  the  roses  on  the  old  wall  dream. 

EDWARD  MASLIN  HULME,. 

AT  TWILIGHT* 

THE  roses  of  yester-year 

Were  all  of  them  white  and  red: 

It  fills  my  heart  with  silent  fear 
To  find  all  their  beauty  fled. 

The  roses  of  white  are  sere, 

All  faded  the  roses  of  red; 
And  one  who  loves  me  is  not  here, 

And  one  that  I  love  is  dead. 

PEYTON  VAN  RENSSELAER. 

TWILIGHT  CHEER 

BETIMES,  when  evening  lies 

In  darkling  skies, 

Their  frowning  masses  part, 

And  at  their  heart 

Insistently  disclose 

A  vein  of  rose: 

When  lo!  upon  the  lake 

Flake  falls  on  flake, 

Until  its  sombre  grays 

Tenderly  blaze 

And  weary  earth  grows  bright 

With  gracious  light, 

So  small  a  skyey  cheer 

May  greatly  bless  us  here! 

CLEMENT  V.  ZANE. 

TWILIGHT  TERROR 

EVENING  comes  with  peace  to  some, 

Not  so  to  me; 
Evening  brings  the  husband  home  — 

Not  mine  to  me. 

*  Copyright,  1891,  by  G.  Schirmer,  Boston.     Used  by  permission. 


198  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

When  the  shadows  creep  and  fall 

Darkling  to  me, 
Then  come  forth  the  eyes  of  all 

The  lost  to  me. 

Saddest  hour  of  all  the  day 

Is  this  to  me  — 
Dying  sun  and  twilight  gray, 

Oh,  comfort  me! 

GEORGIANA  RICE. 

TO  A   WATER  LILY 

(After  E.  A.  MacDoweWs  Melody) 

DREAM,  dream, 
Perfume-laden  one! 

Twilight  falls  softly  on  thee; 

Dream,  gleam, 
Shadows  creep  and  run, 

Gloaming  falls  upon  thee! 
Whence  the  charm  born  ere  the  night, 
White-robed,  with  heart  gold-bright? 
Tell  the  secret  of  the  glow  — 
The  afterglow: 
Petals  dimly  pale  still  there, 
Gleaming  faintly,  waning  fair, 

Vanished,  all,  all  go! 
Still  the  flower  asleep 

Rocked  by  wind  and  tide 
Dreams  doth  keep. 
Gleam,  gleam, 
Fairy  figures  glide 

O'er  paths  to  starland; 
Gleam,  dream, 
Shadow  faces  smile 
Fading  the  while 

Through  the  dusky  twilight, 

Bringing  love's  own  far  land, 
Faintly  bright, 
Drowsy  in  dream! 

ANONYMOUS. 


3E33 
AROUND    THE   HEARTHSTONE 


THE  HOME  PORT 

We  have  gone  down  to  the  sea 

With  her  brine  on  our  fearless  lips, 
From  her  grasp  we  have  laughed  us  free 

When  she  raged  for  her  tithe  of  ships; 
Unmoved  at  the  feet  of  Death 

We  have  fought  her  seething  foam; 
But  now  we  choke  with  the  quick-drawn  breath; 

We  are  rounding  in  towards  home! 

There  's  a  glint  of  gold  in  the  southern  sky 

And  the  luring  spice  winds  croon 
From  lands  in  a  zone  o'  sun  that  lie 

In  a  golden  afternoon; 
But  far  and  away  where  the  gray  clouds  frown 

There  's  a  harbor  for  sails  that  roam; 
And  sweeter  than  song  the  gulls  scream  down 

The  brine-burned  winds  of  home. 

EDITH  PRATT  DICKENS. 


Part 
AROUND   THE   HEARTHSTONE 

MOTHERS 

MOTHERS  are  just  the  queerest  things! 

'Member  when  John  went  away, 
All  but  mother  cried  and  cried, 

When  they  said  good-bye  that  day. 
She  just  talked  and  seemed  to  be 

Not  the  slightest  bit  upset  — 
Was  the  only  one  who  smiled ! 

Others'  eyes  were  streaming  wet. 

But  when  John  came  back  again, 

On  a  furlough  safe  and  sound, 
With  a  medal  for  his  deeds, 

And  without  a  single  wound, 
While  the  rest  of  us  hurrahed, 

Laughed  and  joked  and  danced  about, 
Mother  kissed  him,  then  she  cried  — 

Cried  and  cried  like  all  git  out! 

EDWIN  L.  SABIN. 

MY  GENTLEMAN 

I  OWN  a  dog  who  is  a  gentleman. 
By  birth  most  surely,  since  the  creature  can 
Boast  of  a  pedigree  the  like  of  which 
Holds  not  a  Howard  or  a  Metternich. 

By  breeding.     Since  the  walks  of  life  he  trod, 
He  never  wagged  an  unkind  tail  abroad, 
He  never  snubbed  a  nameless  cur  because 
Without  a  friend  or  credit-card  he  was. 

By  pride.     He  looks  you  squarely  in  the  face 
Unshrinking  and  without  a  single  trace 
Of  either  diffidence  or  arrogant 
Assertion  such  as  upstarts  often  flaunt. 
201 


202  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

By  tenderness.     The  littlest  girl  may  tear 
With  absolute  impunity  his  hair, 
And  pinch  his  silken,  flowing  ears  the  while 
He  smiles  upon  her  —  yes,  I  've  seen  him  smile. 

By  loyalty.     No  truer  friend  than  he 
Has  come  to  prove  his  friendship's  worth  to  me. 
He  does  not  fear  the  master  —  knows  no  fear  — 
But  loves  the  man  who  is  his  master  here. 

By  countenance.     If  there  be  nobler  eyes, 
More  full  of  honor  and  of  honesties, 
In  finer  head,  on  broader  shoulders  found  — 
Then  I  have  never  met  the  man  or  hound. 
Here  is  the  motto  on  my  lifeboat's  log: 
"God  grant  I  may  be  worthy  of  my  dog!" 

ANONYMOUS. 

70'   MAW  LUBS   YO' ALL 

DERE  's  allus  joy  when  de  chillen's  home; 

Oh  Lawdy,  when  a'  tinks!  — 
De  teahs  somehow  dey  allus  come 

An'  blinds  me  when  a'  winks. 

Dere  's  Gen'l  Grant  —  he  's  like  he's  paw, 

(Go  'way,  yo  teahs,  go  'way!) 
An'  Ann  Jenette,  she  's  like  heh  maw  — 

An'  Sam  's  like  boff,  dey  say. 

An'  Abem  Linkum,  he  's  de  boy 

Whah  makes  ma  old  heaht  ache; 
He  do  so  many  cu'us  tings  — 

Dey  keep  his  maw  awake. 

But  den  dey  is  ma  chillens  — 

An'  so  de  teahs  mus'  fall, 
Do'  some  is  good,  an'  some  —  ah  sho7 

Yo'  maw  she  lubs  yo'  all. 

A'  hev  to  count  ma  ring-era 

To  'member  ebry  one; 
An'  den  dere  's  not  a  nuff  ob  dem  — 

To  count  de  ones  dat  's  gone. 

Dere  's  little  Pete,  he'll  nebbah  come; 

(Go  'way,  yo  teahs,  go  'way!) 
Fo'  he  hab  got  a  bettah  home, 

An'  wid  white  chillens  play. 


AROUND    THE   HEARTHSTONE         203 

He  '11  nebbah  know  he  's  black  up  dere; 

(Go  'way,  yo  teahs,  go  'way!) 
Whah  fo'  yo'  come?)  't  is  bettah  where 

De  night  am  allus  day. 

Dere  's  Queen,  an'  she  a'  mos'  forgot; 

Go  'way,  yo  teahs,  yo'  make 
Me  done  forgot  de  berry  one  — 

Dat  bes'  de  possum  bake! 

Yo'  maw  she  's  old,  she  sholy  is! 

(Go  'way,  yo'  teahs,  go  'way!) 
Dey  choke  heh  so,  dey  make  heh  miss  — 

Heh  chillens  bad  to-day. 

Dere  's  Mandy,  Jim,  an'  Cyrus,  too 

An'  Annie  Belle  —  she  's  gone; 
And  Sairy  Jane  —  she  's  married  so 

Has  lots  ob  dem  —  heh  own. 

An'  some  so  young,  dere  paw  he  say 

Too  small  fo'  any  name. 
Den  how  's  de  Lord  to  know  dey  's  mine 

,An'  call  'em  jes'  de  same? 

Somehow  a'  tinks  ob  little  Pete 

De  mos'  ob  ebry  day; 
He  was  the  leastest  ob  dem  all 

(Go  'way,  yo'  teahs,  go  'way!) 

But  dere  '11  be  joy  when  dey  comes  home  — 

De  few  dis  wo'ld  can  fin' ; 
Fo'  mos'  has  gone  to  jine  dere  paw  — 

An'  lef  dere  maw  behin'. 

FLORENCE  GRISWOLD  CONNOR. 

WHAT  MY  MOTHER  IS  TO  ME 

ONCE  I  asked  my  mother  why  she  wa'n't  a  boy  like  me, 
So  she  could  grow  to  be  a  man  and  sail  upon  the  sea, 
And  be  a  famous  Commodore  and  have  a  lot  of  ships, 
"I  would  rather  be  your  mother"  —  these  words  fell  from  her 
lips. 

My  childish  mind  knew  little  of  the  riches  of  that  love 
Which  fills  a  mother's  heart  with  joy  from  that  great  heart  above. 
God  knew  that  mankind  needed  most  a  love  that  passes  all, 
So  like  the  love  that  fills  the  heart  which  marks  the  sparrow's 
fall. 


204  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Poor  is  the  man  whose  memory  has  lost,  in  the  rush  of  greed, 
The  magic  of  his  mother's  love  and  does  not  feel  the  need 
Of  mother's  kiss,  of  mother's  hand,  her  soft  and  fond  caress, 
And  seeks  to  fill  that  sacred  place  with  another's  tenderness. 

From  childhood's  days  to  boyhood  wild  with  careless  heed  of 

thought, 
Through  manhood's  years  of  joy  and  hope  with  disappointment 

fraught, 

With  all  the  love  vouchsafed  to  man  of  wife,  and  child,  or  friend, 
The  love  my  mother  gave  to  me  must  guide  me,  to  the  end. 

Without  her  love  to  start  me  right  upon  the  road  of  life, 

I  would  have  been  a  thoughtless  husband,  not  so  worthy  of  my 

wife; 

I  could  not  have  been  a  father  in  all  that  name  implies, 
Without  her  love  within  my  heart,  that  love  which  never  dies. 

And  now  that  years  have  carried  me  far  out  upon  life's  sea, 
My  heart  to-night  is  hungering  for  what  my  mother  was  to  me. 
I  know  that  she  is  waiting  beyond  that  unknown  way, 
That  I  shall  have  her  love  unchanged  through  God's  eternal 
day. 

DAVID  STEARNS. 

THE  LIGHT  IN  MOTHER'S  EYES 

DEAR  beacon  of  my  childhood's  day, 

The  lodestar  of  my  youth, 
A  mingled  glow  of  tenderest  love 

And  firm,  unswerving  truth, 
I  Ve  wandered  far  o'er  east  and  west, 

'Neath  many  stranger  skies, 
But  ne'er  I  've  seen  a  fairer  light 

Than  that  in  mother's  eyes. 

In  childhood  when  I  crept  to  lay 

My  tired  head  on  her  knee, 
How  gently  shone  the  mother-love 

In  those  dear  eyes  on  me; 
And  when  in  youth  my  eager  feet 

Roamed  from  her  side  afar, 
Where'er  I  went  that  light  divine 

Was  aye  my  guiding  star. 

In  hours  when  all  life's  sweetest  buds 

Burst  into  dewy  bloom, 
In  hours  when  cherished  hopes  lay  dead, 

In  sorrow  and  in  gloom; 


AROUND   THE    HEARTHSTONE         205 

In  evening's  hush,  or  morning's  glow, 

Or  in  the  solemn  night, 
Those  mother  eyes  still  shed  on  me 

Their  calm,  unchanging  light. 

Long  since  the  patient  hands  I  loved 

Were  folded  in  the  clay, 
And  long  have  seemed  the  lonely  years 

Since  mother  went  away; 
But  still  I  know  she  waits  for  me 

In  fields  of  Paradise, 
And  I  shall  reach  them  yet,  led  by 

The  light  in  mother's  eyes. 

L.  M.  MONTGOMERY. 

OLD  MOTHERS 

I  LOVE  old  mothers  —  mothers  with  white  hair, 
And  kindly  eyes,  and  lips  grown  softly  sweet, 
With  murmured  blessings  over  sleeping  babes. 
There  is  a  something  in  their  quiet  grace 
That  speaks  the  calm  of  Sabbath  afternoons; 
A  knowledge  in  their  deep,  unfaltering  eyes, 
That  far  outreaches  all  philosophy. 

Time,  with  caressing  touch,  about  them  weaves 
The  silver-threaded  fairy-shawl  of  age, 
While  all  the  echoes  of  forgotten  songs 
Seemed  joined  to  lend  sweetness  to  their  speech. 

Old  mothers!  —  as  they  pass  with  slow-timed  step, 
Their  trembling  hands  cling  gently  to  youth's  strength. 
Sweet  mothers!     As  they  pass,  one  sees  again, 
Old  garden  walks,  old  roses,  and  old  loves. 

CHARLES  S.  Ross. 

MY  GIRL 

A  LITTLE  corner  with  its  crib, 
A  little  mug,  a  spoon,  a  bib; 
A  little  tooth  so  pearly  white, 
A  little  rubber  ring  to  bite. 

A  little  plate  all  lettered  round, 

A  little  rattle  to  resound, 

A  little  creeping  —  see!  she  stands! 

A  little  step  'twixt  outstretched  hands. 


206  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

A  little  doll  with  flaxen  hair, 
A  little  willow  rocking  chair; 
A  little  dress  of  richest  hue, 
A  little  pair  of  gaiters  blue. 

A  little  school  day  after  day, 
A  little  school-ma'am  to  obey; 
A  little  study  —  soon  't  is  past, 
A  little  graduate  at  last. 

A  little  muff  for  winter  weather, 
A  little  jockey  hat  and  feather; 
A  little  sack  with  funny  pocket, 
A  little  charm,  a  chain,  a  locket. 

A  little  while  to  dance  and  bow, 
A  little  escort  homeward  now; 
A  little  party  somewhat  late, 
A  little  lingering  at  the  gate. 

A  little  walk  in  leafy  June, 

A  little  talk  while  shines  the  moon; 

A  little  reference  with  papa, 

A  little  planning  with  mamma. 

A  little  ceremony  grave, 
A  little  struggle  to  be  brave; 
A  little  cottage  on  a  lawn, 
A  little  kiss  —  my  girl  is  gone. 

ANONYMOUS. 

"SHE  MADE  HOME  HAPPY" 

"SHE  made  home  happy!"  these  few  words  I  read 

Within  a  churchyard,  written  on  a  stone; 

No  name,  no  date,  the  simple  words  alone, 
Told  me  the  story  of  the  unknown  dead. 
A  marble  column  lifted  high  its  head 

Close  by,  inscribed  to  one  the  world  has  known; 

But  ah!  that  lonely  grave  with  moss  o'ergrown 
Thrilled  me  far  more  than  his  who  armies  led. 

"She  made  home  happy!"  through  the  long,  sad  years, 
The  mother  toiled  and  never  stopped  to  rest, 
Until  they  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 

And  closed  her  eyes,  no  longer  dim  with  tears. 
The  simple  record  that  she  left  behind 
Was  grander  than  the  soldier's,  to  my  mind. 

HENRY  COYLE. 


AROUND   THE   HEARTHSTONE         207 
MOTHER 

NOT  a  great  lady,  this  mother  of  mine, 

Easy  through  social  graces, 
But  her  eyes  oft  shine  with  a  light  divine, 
As  they  gaze  full  of  tenderness  into  mine, 
And  her  spirit  is  lucid,  clear,  and  fine 

As  angels  in  heavenly  places. 

Delicate,  fragile,  weak  she  is  not, 

Mother  who  has  loved  me  long; 
Her  strong  back 's  bent  leaning  o'er  the  cot 
As  child  after  child  there  fell  to  her  lot; 
And  she  thanked  the  good  God  for  the  children  she  got, 

And  burdens  she  bore  with  a  song. 

Not  white  nor  tiny  is  mother's  hand  — 

It's  reddened  and  knotted  with  toil; 
But  the  gentlest  zephyr  from  fairy's  wand, 
Nor  the  softest  snowflake  in  all  the  land, 
Is  so  gentle  and  soft  as  mother's  hand 

When  fevers  begin  to  boil. 

I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  her  Thou  hast  given 

To  me,  a  man  of  the  sod; 
For  me  she  has  prayed  and  hoped  and  striven, 
For  me  her  heart  has  oft  been  riven; 
O  make  me  worthy  of  her  and  heaven, 

And  count  me  a  son  of  God! 

TITUS  LOWE. 

A  BALLADE  OF  LABOR  AND  LOVE 

IN  the  work-a-day  world,  with  its  woful  greed, 

With  its  quarrel  for  power,  its  itch  for  gold, 
There  is  profit  and  loss,  there  is  want  and  need, 

There  is  selfishness  ever,  there  's  bought  and  sold. 
But  at  home,  when  Dan  Phoebus  withdraws  his  light, 

With  the  jovial  gods  and  their  fond  commune; 
When  companions  and  kinsfolk  make  all  things  right, 

Then  moveth  the  heart  to  its  own  sweet  tune. 

When  severe  disappointments  in  well  earned  meed 
Have  bedarkened  the  sun,  made  the  moon  grow  old; 

Where  the  beauty  of  life 's  but  a  worthless  weed, 
There  is  selfishness  ever,  there  's  bought  and  sold. 


208  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

But  the  turmoil  well  ended,  and  come  the  night, 

When  with  witty,  wise  words  through  the  converse  strewn, 

Thou  art  sitting  apart  with  a  maiden  bright, 
Then  moveth  the  heart  to  its  own  sweet  tune. 

When  old  Mammon 's  thy  master,  and  pelf  the  seed 

Thou  art  sowing  to  give  thee  on  heav'n  a  hold; 
When  "thy  left  hand  knoweth,"  't  is  there  indeed 

There  is  selfishness  ever,  there  's  bought  and  sold. 
But  whenever  from  loving  blue  eyes  the  sight 

Of  a  soul  to  a  soul  is  flashed,  ne'er  too  soon, 
Then  the  blood  courseth  strong  in  very  delight, 

Then  moveth  the  heart  to  its  own  sweet  tune. 

L'Envoi 

When  o'ercovered  with  depth  of  Philistine  mould, 
There  is  selfishness  ever,  there  's  bought  and  sold. 

But  with  friends  and  fair  maidens  and  love's  dear  boon, 
Then  moveth  the  heart  to  its  own  sweet  tune. 

ANONYMOUS. 


KISS  THE  DEAR  OLD  MOTHER 

Kiss  the  dear  old  mother,  her  cheek  is  wan  and  wasted, 

Feeble  are  the  footsteps  that  once  were  light  and  gay; 
Many  a  bitter  cup  of  sorrow  she  has  tasted, 

Borne  unnumbered  trials  since  her  wedding  day. 
Think  of  all  the  hours  that  she  is  sad  and  lonely, 

All  her  vanished  pleasures  living  o'er  again; 
Cheerful  and  contented  will  she  be  if  you  will  only 

Kiss  the  dear  old  mother  now  and  then. 

In  your  childish  troubles  she  was  always  near  you; 

Oh,  her  very  presence  had  a  power  to  bless! 
Striving  as  a  mother  can  to  calm  and  cheer  you, 

With  her  loving  kisses  and  her  soft  caress. 
When  the  fever  heat  within  your  veins  was  burning, 

Cooling  was  the  touch  of  her  hand  upon  your  brow; 
Never  from  your  poisoned  breath  and  kisses  turning,  — 

Do  you  ever  kiss  your  mother  now? 

She  is  old  and  wrinkled;  not  a  trace  of  beauty 
Lingers  in  the  outlines  of  her  face  and  form; 

Yet  at  sight  of  her,  oh!  what  sweet  thoughts  of  duty 
And  of  fond  affection  in  your  heart  should  swarm. 


AROUND   THE   HEARTHSTONE        209 

For  the  comfort  given  in  your  hours  of  trial, 
For  the  love  exceeding  power  of  tongue  or  pen, 

Let  her  aching  heart  grieve  not  at  Love's  denial, 
Kiss  the  dear  old  mother  now  and  then. 

When  by  Fame  or  Fortune  you  are  proudly  knighted, 

Let  the  dear  old  mother  enter  in  your  joy; 
See  the  aged  pilgrim  trembling  and  delighted, 

At  the  world's  opinion  of  her  boy! 
Think  of  all  you  owe  her;  seek  to  give  her  pleasure, 

Spite  of  cruel  sneers  from  cold  or  careless  men; 
While  within  your  keeping  you  hold  this  precious  treasure, 

Kiss  the  dear  old  mother  now  and  then. 

JOSEPHINE  POLLARD. 

THE  HOME  EXPRESS 

Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant. 
Riding  on  a  rail! 

JOHN  A.  SAXE. 

WHEN  the  city's  rush  is  over,  and  the  monthly  ticket  shown, 
And  the  platform's  crowd  has  scattered  like  the  leaves  in  autumn 

blown, 

Then  the  engine  feels  the  throttle,  as  the  racer  feels  the  whip, 
And  sends  its  drivers  whirling  for  its  little  homeward  trip. 

Oh,  the  home  train  and  its  quiver,  and  its  shoot  along  the  lake, 

And  its  gladness  that  the  day  is  nearly  done; 
And  the  tumbling  of  the  wave  crests  as  they  flash  and  swiftly  break 

In  the  last,  low,  level  shining  of  the  sun! 

The  clean-cut  man  of  business  eyes  his  fresh-bought  paper  close, 
Culling   out   the  world's  wide  doings   from   the   padded   news 

verbose; 

And  the  bargain  hunter,  sated,  sits  ensconced  amid  her  gains, 
Complacent  o'er  the  patent  fact  of  her  superior  brains. 

The  trainman  punches  tickets  with  his  swift  and  easy  air, 
Like  the  man  that  knows  his  business  of  getting  every  fare; 
And  he  calls  the  Hyde  Park  station  in  the  strong  familiar  ring 
As  he  inward  thrusts  his  body  through  the  car  door's  sudden 
swing. 

Meanwhile  the  conversation  of  the  women  from  the  clubs 
Increases  with  the  train  speed  and  the  whirling  cf  the  hubs; 
And  the  latest  sociology  or  Kipling's  virile  verse, 
Or  city  art  and  garbage  their  gossip  intersperse. 


210  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

And  the  judge  of  human  nature,  as  he  notes  their  faces  fair, 
Knows  these  are  they  whose  strenuous  wills  can  strongly  do 

and  dare; 

And  his  inner  eye  sees  visions  of  immortal  Art's  wide  sway 
And  clear-eyed  Science  gazing  on  a  fairer,  sweeter  day. 

So  the  city's  strong-faced  thousands  spin  adown  the  steel-set 

bed, 

With  the  two  red  signals  rearward  and  the  yellow  on  ahead; 
Till  the  engine  feels  the  throttle  'neath  the  station's  glittering 

light, 
And  gladdens  waiting  home-hearts  at  the  gathering  of  the  night. 

Oh,  the  home  train  and  its  quiver,  and  its  shoot  along  the  lake, 

And  its  gladness  that  the  day  is  fairly  done; 
And  the  tumbling  of  the  wave  crests  as  they  flash  and  swiftly  break 

In  the  twilight  and  the  moonlight  just  begun! 

HORACE  SPENCER  FISKE. 

MY  SISTER'S  ROOM 

SHE  that  dwells  here  her  spirit  doth  transmit 

Into  the  very  air;  a  calmness  steals 
Upon  me,  sitting  where  she  's  wont  to  sit 

Or  standing  at  the  table  where  she  kneels. 

Ah!     Could  I  fancy  what  she  feels 
When  the  near  presence  of  her  heavenly  guide, 

The  Man  divine,  her  reverie  reveals. 
Here  are  her  books;  and  here  her  pen  is  plied 
In  tasks  of  love;  there  through  the  window  wide, 

From  wood  and  meadow  floats  a  summer  sound; 
The  thrushes  pipe,  the  whispering  waters  glide; 

Crowned  is  the  vale  with  peace,  as  she  is  crowned. 
O  virgin  spirit  of  this  quiet  place, 
Inform  me  with  thy  restf illness  and  grace! 

F.   B.    MONET-COUTTS. 

BEFORE  IT  IS  TOO  LATE 

IP  you  have  a  gray-haired  mother 

In  the  old  home  far  away, 
Sit  you  down  and  write  the  letter 

You  put  off  from  day  to  day. 
Don't  wait  until  her  weary  steps 

Reach  Heaven's  pearly  gate, 
But  show  her  that  you  think  of  her, 

Before  it  is  too  late. 


AROUND   THE    HEARTHSTONE        211 

If  you  have  a  tender  message, 

Or  a  loving  word  to  say, 
Don't  wait  till  you  forget  it, 

But  whisper  it  to-day. 
Who  knows  what  bitter  memories 

May  haunt  you  if  you  wait? 
So  make  your  loved  one  happy 

Before  it  is  too  late. 

The  tender  word  unspoken, 

The  letters  never  sent, 
The  long  forgotten  messages, 

The  wealth  of  love  unspent; 
For  these  some  hearts  are  breaking, 

For  these  some  loved  ones  wait; 
Show  them  that  you  care  for  them 

Before  it  is  too  late. 

GEORGE  BANCROFT  GRIFFITH. 

HOMEWARD  BOUND 

BETWEEN  the  hills,  between  the  hills, 

Across  wide  fields  just  turning  brown, 
With  here  and  there  a  purling  stream 

And  here  and  there  a  quiet  town, 
We  rush  along  and  rush  along 

And  never  pause  to  wait  and  sleep, 
With  one  strong  hand  to  guide  us  on, 

And  one  calm  eye  a  watch  to  keep. 

And  here  a  field  of  golden  corn, 

And  there  a  meadow  rich  with  grass, 
And  next  a  grove  of  trees  that  stand 

Like  sentinels  to  watch  us  pass. 
A  little  rippling  brook  to  cross, 

A  towering  field  of  stubble  sod, 
And  passing  like  a  gleam  of  light 

A  flaming  field  of  golden-rod. 

We  whirl  along  and  whirl  along, 

And  leave  the  streams  and  vales  behind, 
Till  daylight  dies  beyond  the  hills 

And  night  comes  swiftly  on  the  wind. 
Then  out  from  many  a  farm  and  town 

The  home-lights  twinkle,  flash  and  glow, 
They  smile  a  benediction  sweet 

And  gleam  upon  me  as  I  go. 


212  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Speed  on,  ye  iron  horse  of  might ! 

Ye  cannot  reach  the  goal  too  soon, 
Speed  on,  through  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  pause  not  till  the  race  is  run. 
Until  among  the  faces  strange 

A  dear  familiar  one  I  see, 
And  all  the  journeying  safely  o'er 

My  own  home-light  shall  shine  for  me. 

E.  B.  S. 

MOTHER  AND  HOME 

MOTHER!   Home!  —  that  blest  refrain 

Sounds  through  every  hastening  year: 
All  things  go,  but  these  remain 

Held  in  memory's  jewelled  chain, 

Names  most  precious,  names  thrice  dear: 
Mother!   Home!  —  that  blest  refrain. 

How  it  sings  away  my  pain! 

How  it  stills  my  waking  fear! 
All  things  go,  but  these  remain. 

Griefs  may  grow  and  sorrows  wane, 

E'er  that  melody  I  hear: 
Mother!   Home!  —  that  blest  refrain, 

Tenderness  in  every  strain, 

Thoughts  to  worship  and  revere; 
All  things  go,  but  these  remain; 

Every  night  you  smile  again, 

Every  day  you  bring  me  cheer: 
Mother!  Home!  —  that  blest  refrain: 

All  things  go,  but  these  remain! 

JOHN  JARVIS  HOLDEN. 


Part  3OT3 
ENCOURAGEMENT,  SISTER  OF  HOPE 


IP  I  can  stop  one  heart  from  breaking 

I  shall  not  live  in  vain; 
If  I  can  ease  one  life  the  aching, 

Or  cool  one  pain, 
Or  help  one  fainting  robin 

Into  his  nest  again, 

I  shall  not  live  in  vain. 

EMILY  DICKINSON. 


Part  3OT3 
ENCOURAGEMENT,  SISTER  OF  HOPE 


INVITED  GUESTS 

A  CROWD  of  troubles  passed  him  by, 

As  he  with  courage  waited. 
He  said:  "Where  do  you  troubles  fly, 

When  you  are  thus  belated?" 

"We  go,"  they  said,  "to  those  who  mope, 

Who  look  on  life  dejected, 
Who  weakly  say  good-bye  to  hope: 

We  go  —  where  we  're  expected." 

FRANCES  EKIN  ALLISON. 

"/  GREW  OLD   THE  OTHER  DAY" 

I  GREW  old  the  other  day 

And  I  waked  uneasily. 

Then  I  thought:  This  need  not  be; 

By  and  by  we  shall  not  say, 

I  grew  old  the  other  day. 

TIMOTHY  OTIS  PAINE 

TO   THE  MEN  WHO  LOSE 

HERE  's  to  the  men  who  lose! 

What  though  their  work  be  e'er  so  nobly  planned 
And  watched  with  zealous  care, 

No  glorious  halo  crowns  their  efforts  grand, 
Contempt  is  failure's  share. 

Here  's  to  the  men  who  lose! 

If  triumph's  easy  smile  our  struggles  greet, 
Courage  is  easy  then; 

The  king  is  he  who,  after  fierce  defeat, 
Can  up  and  fight  again. 

215 


216  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Here  'B  to  the  men  who  lose! 

The  ready  plaudits  of  a  fawning  world 
Ring  sweet  in  victor's  ears; 

The  vanquished  banners  never  are  unfurled  — 
For  them  there  sound  no  cheers. 

Here  's  to  the  men  who  lose! 

The  touchstone  of  true  worth  is  not  success, 
There  is  a  higher  test  — 

Though  fate  may  darkly  frown,  onward  press, 
And  bravely  do  one's  best. 

Here  's  to  the  men  who  lose! 

It  is  the  vanquished  praises  that  I  sing, 
And  this  is  the  toast  I  choose: 

"A  hard-fought  failure  is  a  noble  thing; 
Here  's  to  the  men  who  lose!" 

ANONYMOUS. 

WHICH  PATH  SHALL   YOURS  BE? 

WHAT  is  there  in  living  when  one  has  lost  all, 
When  Fortune,  Friends,  Happiness,  go  past  recall? 

To  the  weak  remain  thoughts  of  a  lovelier  past, 
To  the  strong  the  delight  of  withstanding  the  blast, 
To  rebuild  and  repair  the  destruction  that's  wrought 
By  the  chances  of  Fortune  whose  guerdon  he  sought. 

The  weak  man  repines  for  the  days  that  are  gone, 
And  lives  in  the  light  of  the  suns  that  have  shone; 
Sees  naught  else  in  life  that  can  better  its  plan, 
Devoid  of  the  hope  that  should  make  up  a  man. 

Not  so  with  true  manhood!     The  battle  afar 

Brings  out  latent  energies,  fits  him  for  war. 

He  marshals  his  force  with  a  veteran's  skill 

And  the  Fates  lead  him  on,  and  lend  purpose  and  will. 

His  fortune  retrieves  in  a  triumph  complete; 
Ambition  and  strength  come  the  conqueror  to  greet, 
Victorious,  again  on  the  crest  of  the  wave, 
He  's  a  hope  to  the  weak  and  a  strength  for  the  brave. 

Before  you  two  paths  lie;  —  one  broad  and  one  long; 
Which  of  them  shall  yours  be —  the  weak  or  the  strong? 

RAY  D.  SMITH. 


ENCOURAGEMENT  217 

LOVE  AND  HOPE 

MY  hope  sprang  like  a  fountain,  in  the  night, 

And,  lo!  where  on  the  yesterday 

The  desert  burned  in  arid  sway, 
A  refuge  grassed  and  palmed  for  my  delight. 

Thus,  soon  around  me  to  the  restful  shade, 

Came  travellers,  who  erst  did  speed 

The  camel  past  in  utmost  need, 
And  grateful  sighs  their  parasangs  delayed. 

It  was  thy  love  that  made  this  oasis, 

Thy  love  that  smote  the  wilderness, 

And  like  sweet  angels  came  to  bless 
My  soul,  and  all  my  fears  and  doubts  dismiss. 

FRANCIS  BROOKS. 

OPPORTUNITY   TALKS 

YES, 

I  am  Opportunity; 

But,  say,  young  man, 

Don't  wait  for  me 

To  come  to  you; 

You  buckle  down 

To  win  your  crown, 

And  work  with  head 

And  heart  and  hands, 

As  does  the  man 

Who  understands 

That  those  who  wait, 

Expecting  some  reward  from  fate, 

Or  luck,  to  call  it  so,  — 

Sit  always  in  the  'way-back  row. 

And  yet 

You  must  not  let 

Me  get  away  when  I  show  up; 

The  golden  cup 

Is  not  for  him  who  stands, 

With  folded  hands, 

Expecting  me 

To  serve  his  inactivity. 

I  serve  the  active  mind, 

The  seeing  eye, 

The  ready  hand 

That  me  passing  by, 

And  takes  from  me 


218  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

The  good  I  hold 

For  every  spirit 

Strong  and  bold. 

He  does  not  wait 

On  fate 

Who  seizes  me, 

For  I  am  fortune, 

Luck,  and  fate, 

The  corner-stone 

Of  what  is  great 

In  man's  accomplishment, 

But  I  am  none  of  these 

To  him  who  does  not  seize; 

I  must  be  caught, 

If  any  good  is  wrought 

Out  of  the  treasures  I  possess. 

Oh,  yes, 

I'm  Opportunity; 

I'm  great; 

I  'm  sometimes  late, 

But  do  not  wait 

For  me; 

Work  on, 

Watch  on, 

Good  hands,  good  heart, 

And  some  day  you  will  see  — 

Out  of  your  effort  rising  — 

Opportunity. 

W.  J.  LAMPTON. 


BE  THOU  A   BIRD,  MY  SOUL 

BE  thou  a  bird,  my  soul,  and  mount  and  soar 

Out  of  thy  wilderness, 

Till  earth  grows  less  and  less, 
Heaven  more  and  more. 

Be  thou  a  bird,  and  mount,  and  soar,  and  sing, 

Till  all  the  earth  shall  be 

Vibrant  with  ecstasy 
Beneath  thy  wing. 

Be  thou  a  bird,  and  trust,  the  autumn  come, 

That  through  the  pathless  air 

Thou  shalt  find  otherwhere, 
Unerring,  home. 

A.  G.  C. 


ENCOURAGEMENT  219 

" LET  GO!" 

"HOLD  fast,"  that  splendid  motto  has  many  battles  won, 

When  linked  with  noble  purpose  to  earn  the  world's  "well  done," 

But  one  of  equal  import  for  all  shrewd  men  to  know 

Is  where  to  quit  and  have  the  grit  to  then  and  there  "Let  Go." 

Have  you  lost  your  coign  of  vantage,  have  you  slipped  into  a 

rut, 

It 's  no  disgrace  to  change  your  base  before  the  wires  are  cut; 
It  bespeaks  the  wily  general  to  outwit  a  stubborn  foe  — 
Don't  stand  your  ground  when  you  have  found  't  will  pay  you 

to  let  go. 

W.   A.   BLACKWELL. 

CHERRY   TREES  A-BLOOM 

0  rose-red  bloom  of  the  cherry, 
Did  you  come  for  pleasure  or  pain? 

KOMACHI,  Sir  E.  Arnold's  translation. 

WHEN  the  spring's  elysian 

Vision 

Nacres  with  the  earlier  dawn, 
JT  is  the  custom  olden 

Holden 

Of  the  folks  in  fair  Nippon, 
Woodlands  o'er  to  wander, 

Ponder 

On  the  web  from  May-day's  loom, 
In  delight  inditing, 

Writing 
Of  the  cherry  trees  a-bloom. 

Every  tree,  a  flowery 

Houri 

Rosy-white  in  azure  air, 
Breathes  its  odor  fragrant, 

Vagrant 

To  the  zephyrs  idling  there; 
All  its  boughs  dew-wetted, 

Fretted, 

Dimple  o'er  each  petalled  plume, 
Softly  swaying,  playing, 

Spraying 
In  a  radiant  morn  of  bloom. 


220  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Nature's  self,  another 

Mother, 

Takes  her  children  to  her  arms 
As  they  trace  her  face's 

Graces 

In  the  cherry's  glowing  charms; 
Sets  them  a  completer 

Metre; 

Send  her  very  soul  to  illume; 
Till  they  clearly,  cheerly, 

Dearly 
Hymn  the  shimmering  trees  a-bloom. 

Ah,  that  dainty  haunting 

Chaunting 

Echoes  joy-bells  all  the  year, 
Though  no  bard  rehearses 

Verses, 

Though  no  cherry  tree  's  a-near; 
Holding  e'er  that  pleasant 

Present, 

Never  seeking  doubtful  doom, 
They  no  morrow's  sorrow 

Borrow 
For  some  bud  not  yet  a-bloom. 

So,  though  world  a-weary, 

Dreary 

Autumn  rain  and  winter  snow 
Leave  the  land  a-lying 

Dying, 

Ne'er  a  leaf  nor  cherry  blow, 
Still  their  hearts  go  lightened, 

Brightened 

By  the  blossom,  tint,  perfume, 
By  the  slender,  tender 

Splendor 
Of  the  cherry  trees  a-bloom. 

WALLACE  RICE. 

I'M  GLAD 

I  'M  glad  the  sky  is  painted  blue, 
And  the  earth  is  painted  green, 

With  such  a  lot  of  nice  fresh  air 
All  sandwiched  in  between. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ENCOURAGEMENT  221 

HOW  DID   YOU  DIE?* 

DID  you  tackle  that  trouble  that  came  your  way 

With  a  resolute  heart  and  cheerful? 
Or  hide  your  face  from  the  light  of  day 

With  a  craven  soul  and  fearful? 

O,  a  trouble  's  a  ton,  or  a  trouble  's  an  ounce, 

Or  a  trouble  's  what  you  make  it. 
And  it  is  n't  the  fact  that  you  're  hurt  that  counts, 

But  only,  how  did  you  take  it? 

You  're  beaten  to  earth?     Well,  well,  what 's  that? 

Come  up  with  a  smiling  face. 
It 's  nothing  against  you  to  fall  down  flat, 

But  to  lie  there,  that 's  disgrace. 

The  harder  you  're  thrown,  why  the  higher  you  bounce; 

Be  proud  of  your  blackened  eye! 
It  is  n't  the  fact  that  you  're  licked  that  counts; 

It 's  how  did  you  fight?  —  and  why? 

And  though  you  be  done  to  death,  what  then? 

If  you  battled  the  best  you  could; 
If  you  played  your  part  in  the  world  of  men, 

WThy,  the  Critic  will  call  it  good. 

Death  comes  with  a  crawl,  or  comes  with  a  pounce, 

And  whether  he  's  slow  or  spry, 
It  is  n't  the  fact  that  you  're  dead  that  counts, 

But  only,  how  did  you  die? 

EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 

THE  COMFORTERS 

To  Night  the  sleeper, 

The  watcher  Sorrow: 
"  Be  thy  dreams  deeper, 

So  may  I  borrow 
Peace  of  thy  peace, 

And  rest  to  my  sorrow!" 

"Peace,  oh,  peace!" 
Quoth  Night.     "Of  to-morrow 

I  am  the  keeper, 
O  watcher,  O  Sorrow! 

*From  "Impertinent  Poems."     Copyright,  1907,  by  Dodge  Pub 
lishing  Company.     Used  by  permission  of  publishers. 


222  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

"Under  my  breast 

Its  gold  is  moulden. 
Lay  thee,  and  rest, 

To  dreams  beholden, 
Wherefrom  of  its  nest 

The  dawn  goes  golden!" 

To  the  dreamed  Morrow, 

Sorrow  the  sleeper: 
"Where  may  I  borrow 
New  tears  to  my  sorrow, 
To  comfort  my  sorrow, 

Lest  the  wound  grow  deeper? 
Of  sleep  borne  hither, 
Its  well-springs  wither." 

"Of  me,"  quoth  the  Morrow, 
"O  Sorrow  the  sleeper!" 

LAWRENCE  HOUSMAN. 

GOD  BLESS   YOU,  DEAR,   TO-DAY 

IP  there  be  graveyard  in  the  heart 

From  which  no  roses  spring, 
A  place  of  wrecks  and  old  gray  tombs 

From  which  no  birds  take  wing, 
Where  linger  buried  hopes  and  dreams 

Like  ghosts  among  the  graves, 
Why,  buried  dreams  are  dismal  things, 

And  lonely  ghosts  are  knaves! 

If  there  come  dreary  winter  days, 

When  summer  roses  fall 
And  lie,  forgot,  in  withered  drifts 

Along  the  garden  wall; 
If  all  the  wreaths  a  lover  weaves 

Turn  thorns  upon  the  brow,  — 
Then  out  upon  the  silly  fool 

Who  makes  not  merry  now! 

For  if  we  cannot  keep  the  past, 

Why  care  for  what 's  to  come? 
The  instant's  prick  is  all  that  stings, 

And  then  the  place  is  numb. 
If  Life  's  a  lie  and  Love  's  a  cheat, 

As  I  have  heard  men  say, 
Then  here  's  a  health  to  fond  deceit  — 

God  bless  you,  dear,  to-day. 

JOHN  BENNETT. 


ENCOURAGEMENT  223 

A  SIGH 

MY  wounded  heart  is  sore 

And  needs  a  gentle  touch: 

I  do  not  ask  for  much 
And  cannot  ask  for  more  — 

A  gentle  touch. 

TIMOTHY  OTIS  PAINE. 

ENCOURAGEMENT 

"I  AM  so  tired!  "I  cried. 

Vainly  I  strive  against  The  Giant  Wrong. 
The  world  heeds  not;  still  does  The  Wrong  abide, 

More  cruel  and  more  strong. 

A  thousand  lives  I  'd  throw 

Into  the  fight  and  gladly  yield  them  all, 
Counting  each  pang  a  blessing,  could  I  know 

It  helped  The  Wrong  to  fall. 

But  oh,  to  toil  so  much, 

From  weary  year  to  weary  year,  and  see 
My  brothers  in  The  Wrong's  most  cruel  clutch, 

Far  as  before  from  free! 

A  Spirit  to  my  thought 

Whispers:  "T  is  near  —  The  Wrong  's  sure  overthrown. 
The  world  will  indeed  know  not  how  you  wrought, 

But  you  and  I  will  know. 

ELIZABETH  PHELPS  ROUNSEVELL. 

THE  BLESSING  OF  A   SMOKE 

DID  you  ever  invoke 

The  assistance  of  smoke 
When  the  burdens  of  care  seem  to  pall; 

When  you  tire  of  the  strife 

And  the  boredoms  of  life, 
And  care  not  for  your  rise  or  your  fall? 

That 's  the  time  of  all  time 

When  a  smoke  is  sublime; 
It  will  lift  from  your  mind  every  care; 

For  your  troubles  and  woes 

Will  be  lost  in  your  doze, 
Dissolved  in  tobacco's  bright  glare. 


224  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

With  each  puff  that  you  take 

And  each  ring  that  you  make 
You  '11  experience  thrills  of  delight; 

Pleasant  thoughts  come  and  go 

Through  the  fragrant  weed's  glow 
And  your  heart 's  correspondingly  light. 

The  blue  Devils  of  care 

Fade  away  in  the  air, 
And  your  gaze  meets  the  Goddess  of  Fate 

Smiling  down  through  the  rings, 

And  the  message  she  brings, 
Makes  the  whole  world  look  rosy  again. 

RAY  D.  SMITH. 

REFUGE 

UPON  the  tumult  of  the  toiling  street 
A  sudden  hush  of  silence  softly  falls, 
And  through  the  avenue  of  burning  walls 

A  cooling  current  wanders,  fresh  and  sweet. 

Above  me  bend  the  deep  eternal  skies, 
To  whose  wide  spaces  my  cramped  thoughts  may  rise; 
Upon  my  face  the  mountain  breezes  blow; 
Through  odorous  woods  the  living  waters  flow; 

Far  off  I  hear  the  organ  of  the  sea, 
Chanting  its  psalm  of  power  and  peace  to  me; 
In  soundless  waves  I  plunge  my  fevered  life, 
And  rise  refreshed,  and  freed  from  vexing  strife. 

Back  to  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 
My  soul  comes,  joyful  that  its  human  lot, 
Transformed  and  lifted  by  a  winged  thought, 

Becomes  once  more  an  upward  shining  way. 

ANNIE  L.  MUZZEY. 

FROM  ALTRURIA 

A  LITTLE  glimpse  of  heaven  upon  our  wearied  earth; 
Like  sunshine  and  like  music  of  some  remembered  mirth, 
It  lingers  with  my  spirit,  and  gives  our  souls  a  claim 
Of  sisterhood,  though  strangers  we  were  in  even  name. 

Oh,  beautiful  uplifting  above  the  narrow  plane 

Of  self  and  selfish  striving,  we  count  our  living  vain. 

I  felt  as  if  a  gateway  had  opened,  wide  and  free, 

To  that  bright  land  of  "Nowhere,"  the  poet  showed  to  me. 


ENCOURAGEMENT  225 

We  drifted  with  Time's  current  that  bore  us  far  apart; 

But  still  that  voice  of  kindness  is  pulsing  in  my  heart. 

It  kindles  inspiration  when  hope  is  faint  and  wan  — 

Like  the  first  fresh  wind  of  morning  that  stirs  before  the  dawn. 

A  little  glimpse  of  heaven  upon  our  wearied  earth; 
A  sweet  assurance  given  of  days  that  shall  have  birth: 
When  the  plaint  of  helpless  sorrow  and  the  wild  revolt  of  wrong 
Shall  pass  before  the  coming  of  the  Loving  and  the  Strong. 

When  our  souls  shall  learn  the  secret  of  the  turmoil  and  the  pain, 
And  we  know  the  tie  that  binds  us  is  a  tie  for  loss  and  gain, 
That  time  nor  change  can  alter  though  blindly  we  withstood 
The  law  of  life  eternal  —  the  law  of  brotherhood. 

FRANCES  M.  MILNE. 

BE  CONTENTED 

THE  fish  that  gets  away,  my  boy, 

The  biggest  seems  to  be; 
Likewise  upon  the  topmost  branch 

The  choicest  fruits  we  see. 
And  yet  the  fish  we  catch  are  good, 

The  fruit  we  pluck  is  fine, 
So  be  contented  with  your  lot, 

'T  is  idle  to  repine. 

Don't  mourn  the  fish  that  gets  away, 

But  glory  in  your  catch; 
The  fruit  upon  the  lower  limb 

The  highest  ones  may  match. 
Waste  neither  time  nor  tears  upon 

The  things  you  fail  to  get, 
But  make  the  most  of  what  you  have, 

And  fame  will  find  you  yet. 

ANONYMOUS. 

A   THOUGHT  FROM  NIETSZCHE 

I  HAVE  been  dealt  a  cruel  blow, 

And  though  it  caused  me  pain, 
I  was  too  strong  to  be  laid  low;  — 

I  am  but  hurt,  not  slain. 

Therefore  I  have  no  cause  to  grieve, 

Nay,  I  rejoice,  because 
A  hurt  that  could  not  kill  must  leave 

Me  stronger  than  I  was. 

CHARLES  JAMES. 


226  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

A   RECIPE  FOR  SANITY 

ARE  you  worsted  in  a  fight? 

Laugh  it  off. 
Are  you  cheated  of  your  right? 

Laugh  it  off. 

Don't  make  tragedy  of  trifles, 
Don't  shoot  butterflies  with  rifles  — 

Laugh  it  off. 

Does  your  work  get  into  kinks? 

Laugh  it  off. 
Are  you  near  all  sorts  of  brinks? 

Laugh  it  off. 

If  it 's  sanity  you  're  after, 
There  's  no  recipe  like  laughter  — 

Laugh  it  off. 

HENRY  RUTHERFORD  ELLIOT. 

FOUR-LEAF  CLOVERS 

I  KNOW  a  place  where  the  sun  is  like  gold, 
And  the  cherry  blooms  burst  with  snow; 

And  down  underneath  is  the  loveliest  nook, 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

One  leaf  is  for  hope,  and  one  is  for  faith, 

And  one  is  for  love,  you  know, 
But  God  put  another  in  for  luck  — 

If  you  search,  you  will  find  where  they  grow. 

But  you  must  have  hope,  and  you  must  have  faith, 
You  must  love  and  be  strong,  and  so, 

If  you  work,  if  you  wait,  you  will  find  the  place 
Where  the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

ELLA  HIGGINSON. 

HOPE 

WHEN  the  dark  shadows  fall, 
Like  some  gloomy,  great  pall, 

On  all  around, 

And  look  which  way  we  may, 
Night  has  usurped  the  day, 

And  cares  abound; 
Then  heavenward  we  will  turn, 
Till  thoughts  within  us  burn, 

That  God  is  right; 


ENCOURAGEMENT  227 

That  whatsoever  comes 
Is  overruled  alone 

By  his  great  might; 
That  justice  shall  prevail, 
And  righteousness  exhale 

Perfume  complete; 
That  Truth  at  last  shall  wield 
A  sceptre  and  a  shield 

With  joy  replete; 
And  Honor  firm  shall  stand, 
The  nation's  great  right  hand, 

Forevermore; 

While  Faith  and  Hope  shall  hold 
Our  country  in  the  fold, 

As  heretofore. 

MARTHA  J.  HADLEY. 

TRUE  CHARITY 

I  GAVE  a  beggar  from  my  little  store 
Of  well-earned  gold.     He  spent  the  shining  ore 
And  came  again,  and  yet  again,  still  cold 
And  hungry  as  before. 

I  gave  a  thought,  and  through  that  thought  of  mine 
He  found  himself,  the  man,  supreme,  divine! 
Fed,  clothed,  and  crowned  with  blessings  manifold; 
And  now  he  begs  no  more. 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

THE  STRENGTH  OF  WEAKNESS 

How  often  do  the  clinging  hands,  though  weak, 
Clasp  round  strong  hearts  that  otherwise  would  break. 

M.  ELIZABETH  GROUSE. 

COMPENSATIONS 

THE  blackest  clouds  have  suns  beyond 
To  touch  them  with  a  fairy's  wand; 
And  never  was  a  cloud  —  not  one  — 
That  has  outlasted  our  good  sun; 
If  it 's  too  sunny,  't  is  allowed 
That  hottest  sun  makes  heaviest  cloud. 

Never  did  the  longest  rain 
Fail  to  end  in  sun  again; 
Mud  has  never  yet  been  spied 


228  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

That,  some  day,  did  not  get  dried; 
Never  was  the  dust  so  thick 
But  a  shower  would  lay  it  quick. 

If  the  winter  is  so  chill, 
Summer  heat  is  coming  still; 
If  the  summer  is  too  hot, 
Winter  's  coming,  when  it 's  not; 
And,  between  them,  spring  and  fall  — 
Not  too  cold  or  hot  at  all. 

When  night 's  blackest,  twice  as  gay 
Is  the  dawn  at  break  of  day; 
If  the  noon  hour  is  too  bright, 
JT  will  not  be  so,  late  at  night; 
And  the  stars  and  silver  moon 
Gild  December,  more  than  June. 

Man  may  trudge  the  longest  mile 
And,  to  the  end,  smile  meets  with  smile; 
And  on  sunny  days  sit  down 
And  frown,  till  all  around  him  frown; 
What  you  are  will  others  be  — 
Smile  for  smile,  and  glee  for  glee. 

CHRISTOPHER  BANNISTER. 


WOK   UPl 

LOOK  up,  not  down 
At  all  this  little  life's  mistakes! 

Quick,  smooth  away  that  scornful  frown  — 
There!   Now  a  little  smile  awakes. 

Look  up,  not  down; 

Good  cheer  brings  back  the  old  renown. 
Aye,  when  the  light  of  morning  breaks 
And  saddened  earth  at  last  awakes, 

Where,  think  you,  we  shall  wear  our  crown? 
Look  up,  not  down! 

JOHN  JARVIS  HOLDEN. 


Part 
IN   THE    MIDST    OF   LIFE 


UENVOI 


HAVE  little  care  that  Life  is  brief, 

And  less  that  Art  is  long. 
Success  is  in  the  silences 

Though  Fame  is  in  the  song. 

II 

With  the  Orient  in  her  eyes, 

Life  my  mistress  lured  me  on. 
"Knowledge,"  said  that  look  of  hers, 

"Shall  be  yours  when  all  is  done." 

Like  a  pomegranate  in  halves, 

"Drink  me,"  said  that  mouth  of  hers, 

And  I  drank  who  now  am  here 
Where  my  dust  with  bliss  confers. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 


Part 
IN  THE  MIDST  OF  LIFE 

AT  THE   TOP  OF  THE  ROAD 

"BUT,  lord,"  she  said,  "my  shoulders  still  are  strong  — 
I  have  been  used  to  bear  the  load  so  long; 

"And  see,  the  hill  is  passed,  and  smooth  the  road." 
"Yet,"  said  the  Stranger,  "yield  me  now  thy  load." 

Gently  he  took  it  from  her,  and  she  stood 
Straight-limbed  and  lithe,  in  new-found  maidenhood 

Amid  long,  sunlit  fields;  around  them  sprang 
A  tender  breeze,  and  birds  and  rivers  sang. 

"My  lord,"  she  said,  "the  land  is  very  fair!" 
Smiling,  he  answered:  "Was  it  not  so  there?" 

"There?"     In  her  voice  a  wondering  question  layj 
"Was  I  not  always  here,  then,  as  to-day?" 

He  turned  to  her,  with  strange,  deep  eyes  aflame, 
"Knowest  thou  not  this  kingdom,  nor  my  name?" 

"Nay,"  she  replied,  "but  this  I  understand  — 
That  thou  art  Lord  of  life  in  this  dear  land!" 

"Yes,  child,"  he  murmured,  scarce  above  his  breath: 
"Lord  of  the  Land,  but  men  have  named  me  Death." 

CHARLES  BUXTON  GOING. 

FROM   THE  JAPANESE 

0  CHASER  of  the  dragon-flies  at  play, 
O  son,  my  son! 

1  wonder  where  thy  little  feet  to-day 
Have  run! 

ANONYMOUS. 

231 


232  THEHUMBLERPOETS 

IF  WE  ONLY  KNEW 

IF  we  only  knew  what  the  others  know 

Who  have  trod  life's  path  to  the  evening  dew  — 

And  the  solemn  dark  of  the  closing  night  — 
If  we  only  knew! 

If  we  only  knew,  on  the  waking  morn, 

Where  the  broad  path  leads,  where  the  roses  strew, 

Or  the  rocky  road  and  the  piercing  thorn  — 
If  we  only  knew! 

If  we  only  knew  't  were  weal  or  woe, 

If   't  were  joy  or  pain  in  the  parting  view 

Of  the  things  that  are,  as  the  soul  takes  flight  — 
If  we  only  knew! 

ANONYMOUSc 

LETTICE 

LITTLE  Lettice  is  dead,  they  say, 

The  brown  sweet  child  who  rolled  in  the  hay; 

Ah,  where  shall  we  find  her? 

For  the  neighbors  pass 

To  the  pretty  lass, 
In  a  linen  cere-cloth  to  wind  her. 

If  her  sister  were  to  search 

The  nettle-green  nook  beside  the  church, 

And  the  way  were  shown  her 

Through  the  coffin-gate 

To  her  dead  playmate, 
She  would  fly  too  frightened  to  own  her. 

Should  she  come  at  a  noon-day  call, 
Ah,  stealthy,  stealthy,  with  no  footfall, 

And  no  laughing  chatter, 

To  her  mother  't  were  worse 

Than  a  barren  curse 
That  her  little  own  wench  should  pat  her. 

Little  Lettice  is  dead  and  gone! 

The  stream  by  her  garden  wanders  on 

Through  the  rushes  wider; 

She  fretted  to  know 

How  its  bright  drops  grow 
On  the  hills,  but  no  hand  would  guide  her. 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  233 

Little  Lettice  is  dead  and  lost! 

Her  willow-tree  boughs  by  storm  are  tost  — 

Oh,  the  swimming  sallows! 

Where  she  crouched  to  find 

The  nest  of  the  wind 
Like  the  water-fowls  in  the  shallows. 

Little  Lettice  is  out  of  sight! 

The  river-bed  and  the  breeze  are  bright: 

Aye  me,  were  it  sinning 

To  dream  that  she  knows 

Where  the  soft  wind  rose 
That  her  willow-branches  is  thinning? 

Little  Lettice  has  lost  her  name, 

Slipt  away  from  her  praise  and  our  blame; 

Let  no  love  pursue  her, 

But  conceive  her  free 

Where  the  bright  drops  be 
On  the  hills,  and  no  longer  rue  her! 

MICHAEL  FIELD. 

BALLAD  OF  THE   UNSUCCESSFUL 

WE  are  the  toilers  from  whom  God  barred 

The  gifts  that  are  good  to  hold; 
We  meant  full  well  and  we  tried  full  hard, 

And  our  failures  were  manifold. 

And  we  are  the  clan  of  those  whose  kin 

Were  a  millstone  dragging  them  down. 
Yea,  we  had  to  sweat  for  our  brother's  sin, 

And  lose  the  victor's  crown. 

The  seeming  able,  who  all  but  scored, 

From  their  teeming  tribe  we  come; 
What  was  there  wrong  with  us,  O  Lord, 

That  our  lives  were  dark  and  dumb? 

The  men  ten-talented,  who  still 

Strangely  missed  the  goal, 
Of  them  we  are;  it  seems  Thy  will 

To  harrow  some  in  soul. 

We  are  the  sinners,  too,  whose  lust 

Conquered  the  higher  claims; 
We  sat  us  prone  in  the  common  dust 

And  played  at  the  devil's  games. 


234  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

We  are  the  hard-luck  folk  who  strove 

Zealously,  but  in  vain; 
We  lost  and  lost,  while  our  comrades  throve, 

And  still  we  lost  again. 

We  are  the  doubles  of  those  whose  way 

Was  festal  with  fruits  and  flowers; 
Body  and  brains  we  were  sound  as  they, 

But  the  prizes  were  not  ours. 

A  mighty  army  our  full  ranks  make, 

We  shake  the  graves  as  we  go; 
The  sudden  stroke  and  the  slow  heartbreak, 

They  both  have  brought  us  low. 

And  while  we  are  laying  life's  sword  aside, 

Spent  and  dishonored  and  sad, 
Our  epitaph  this,  when  once  we  have  died: 

"The  weak  lie  here,  and  the  bad." 

We  wonder  if  this  can  be  really  the  close, 
Life's  fever  cooled  by  death's  trance; 

And  we  cry,  though  it  seem  to  our  dearest  of  foes: 
"God,  give  us  another  chance!" 

RICHARD  BURTON. 

A   CRY  FOR  CONQUEST 

OH,  let  me  out  into  the  starlight  night  — 

My  soul  is  stifling  —  and  my  thoughts  need  room! 

Away  with  petty  aims  that  dwarf  and  blight 

And  down  with  false  desires  that  work  for  doom! 

Out  here  —  out  here  the  wind  is  wondrous  sweet, 
And  cool  caresses  fan  my  fevered  face; 

My  gaze  can  reach  where  stars  and  stillness  meet 
And  vastness  holds  me  in  its  wide  embrace. 

Ah,  here  at  last  my  sordid  soul  is  pure  — 

Unworthy  thoughts  slip  from  me  one  by  one, 

And  naught  but  highest  purposes  endure  — 
With  lower  things  I  am  forever  done! 

Oh,  may  I  but  absorb  within  my  life 
The  purity  and  grandeur  of  this  hour  — 

And  so,  'mid  days  of  tumult  and  of  strife, 
Stand  steadfast  in  the  consciousness  of  power! 

ANGELA  MORGAN. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  235 

OPPORTUNITY 

MASTER  of  human  destinies  am  I! 

Fame,  love,  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait. 

Cities  and  field  I  walk;  I  penetrate 
Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and  passing  by 

Hovel  and  mart  and  palace  —  soon  or  late 

I  knock  unbidden  once  at  every  gate! 
If  sleeping,  wake  —  if  feasting,  rise  before 

I  turn  away.     It  is  the  hour  of  fate, 

And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 
Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 

Save  death;  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 
Condemned  to  failure,  penury,  and  woe, 

Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore. 

I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more! 

JOHN  JAMES  INQALLS. 

PROEM 

SOME  said,  "He  was  strong."     He  was  weak; 
For  he  never  could  sing  or  speak 
Of  the  things  beneath  or  the  things  above, 
Till  his  soul  was  touched  by  death  or  love. 

Some  said,  "He  was  weak."     They  were  wrong. 

For  the  soul  must  be  strong 

That  can  break  into  song 

Of  the  things  beneath  and  the  things  above, 

At  the  stroke  of  death,  at  the  touch  of  love. 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

SONG 

AH  me!     How  slow  the  sad  years  pass; 

What  do  the  swallows  say? 
"Only  a  flutter  of  leaves  and  grass 

Between  the  Spring  and  the  Spring." 

Ah  me!     How  sad  the  long  nights  seem; 

What  do  the  children  say? 
"Only  a  bridge  of  golden  dream 

Between  the  Day  and  the  Day." 

Ah  me!     How  blank  life's  weary  hours; 

What  hath  the  mourner  said? 
"Only  a  green  mound  strewn  with  flowers 

Between  the  Quick  and  the  Dead." 

BEATRICE  ROSENTHAL. 


236  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

THE  REWARD 

WHAT  boots  my  will  to  guide  a  gilded  tongue  — 
To  hope,  or  send  the  plenteous  days  to  find 
New  magic  lamps?     My  childish  trumpets  wind 

But  faint  along  the  walls  whose  stones  have  rung, 

In  older  days,  with  echoes  nobler  sung! 

But  worth  is  this  —  my  tender  wreath  —  to  bind 
Or  yet  adorn? — -Antiquity  has  twined 

Her  hempen  bands  the  moss  of  years  among. 

We  quit  the  shodden  world,  ambition  stung, 

And  toy  with  vibrant  shafts  in  the  open  blue  — 
One  with  the  careless  cloud,  nursed  of  dew! 

Upgathering  sweets  from  ancient  hills  o'erflung, 
We  bud  and  bloom,  and  reach  the  lips  of  Love!  — 
And  swing,  a  rattling  vine,  the  autumn  pyre  above! 

IVAN  SWIFT. 

SONGS  OF  SOULS   THAT  FAILED 

WE  come  from  the  war-swept  valleys, 

Where  the  strong  ranks  clash  in  might, 
Where  the  broken  rear  guard  rallies 

For  its  last  and  losing  fight, 
From  the  roaring  streets  and  highways, 

Where  the  mad  crowds  move  abreast. 
We  come  to  the  wooded  byways, 

To  cover  our  grief,  and  rest. 

Not  ours  the  ban  of  the  coward, 

Not  ours  is  the  idler's  shame; 
If  we  sink  at  last,  o'erpowered, 

Will  ye  whelm  us  with  scorn  or  blame? 
We  have  seen  the  goal  and  have  striven 

As  they  strive  who  win  or  die; 
We  were  burdened  and  harshly  driven, 

And  the  swift  feet  passed  us  by. 

WTien  we  hear  the  plaudits'  thunder, 

And  thrill  to  the  victor's  shout, 
We  envy  them  not,  nor  wonder 

At  the  fate  that  cast  us  out; 
For  we  heed  one  music  only, 

The  sweet  far  voice  that  calls 
To  the  dauntless  soul  and  lonely 

Who  fights  to  the  end  and  falls. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  237 

We  come  —  outworn  and  weary  — 

The  unmanned  hosts  of  life; 
Long  was  our  march  and  dreary, 

Fruitless  and  long  our  strife, 
Out  from  the  dust  and  the  riot  — 

From  the  lost,  yet  glorious  quest, 
We  come  to  the  vales  of  quiet, 

To  cover  our  grief  and  rest. 

MARION  COUTHOUY  SMITH. 

TO  BE  OLD 

AGAINST  the  quicksands  of  receding  life  to  sink 
So  broken,  spent  and  wrenched  t'o  face  thy  death, 

And  then  with  sudden  exaltation  sweet  to  think, 
"The  everlasting  arms  are  underneath." 

HELEN  ELDRED  STORKE. 

TO  BE   YOUNG 

AMID  the  fresh  salt  surf  one's  bit  of  buoyant  life  to  fling, 
To  know  the  glad  uplift  of  that  endeavored  best 

Which  climbs  above  the  undertow  of  life  to  bring 

One,  face  to  face,  the  beauty  of  each  wave's  surmounted  crest. 

HELEN  ELDRED  STORKE. 

THE  TREE  GOD  PLANTS 

THE  wind  that  blows  can  never  kill 

The  tree  God  plants; 
It  bloweth  east,  it  bloweth  west, 
The  tender  leaves  have  little  rest, 
But  any  wind  that  blows  is  best; 

The  tree  God  plants 
Strikes  deeper  root,  grows  higher  still, 
Spreads  wider  boughs,  for  God's  good  will 

Meets  all  its  wants. 

There  is  no  frost  hath  power  to  blight 

The  tree  God  shields; 
The  roots  are  warm  beneath  soft  snows, 
And  when  Spring  comes  it  surely  knows, 
And  every  bud  to  blossom  grows. 

The  tree  God  shields 
Grows  on  apace  by  day  and  night, 
Till,  sweet  to  taste  and  fair  to  sight, 

Its  fruit  it  yields. 


238  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

There  is  no  storm  hath  power  to  blast 

The  tree  God  knows; 
No  thunderbolt,  nor  beating  rain, 
Nor  lightning  flash,  nor  hurricane, 
When  they  are  spent  it  doth  remain. 

The  tree  God  knows 
Through  every  tempest  standeth  fast, 
And  from  its  first  day  to  its  last 

Still  fairer  grows. 

If  in  the  soul's  still  garden-place 

A  seed  God  sows  — 
A  little  seed  —  it  soon  will  grow 
And  far  and  near  all  men  will  know, 
For  Heavenly  lands  He  bids  it  blow. 

A  seed  God  sows, 

And  up  it  springs  by  day  and  night; 
Through  life,  through  death  it  groweth  right, 

Forever  grows. 

ANONYMOUS. 
SOME  TIME 

SOME  time,  when  all  life's  lessons  have  been  learned, 

And  sun  and  stars  for  evermore  have  set, 
The  things  which  our  weak  judgment  here  has  spurned  — 

The  things  o'er  which  we  grieved  with  lashes  wet  — 
Will  flash  before  us  out  of  life's  dark  night, 

As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints  of  blue; 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans  were  right, 

And  how  what  seemed  reproof  was  love  most  true. 

And  we  shall  see,  that  while  we  frown  and  sigh, 

God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you  and  me; 
How,  when  we  called  He  heeded  not  our  cry, 

Because  His  wisdom  to  the  end  could  see; 
And  e'en  as  prudent  parents  disallow 

Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  babyhood, 
So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from  us  now 

Life's  sweetest  things,  because  it  seemeth  good. 

And  if,  some  time,  commingled  with  life's  wine, 

We  find  the  wormwood,  and  rebel  and  shrink, 
Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or  mine 

Pours  out  this  potion  for  our  lips  to  drink; 
And  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying  low, 

Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  his  face, 
Oh!  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so, 

But  bear  your  sorrow  with  obedient  grace. 


IN   THE    MIDST   OF   LIFE  239 

And  you  shall  shortly  know  that  lengthened  breath 

Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  His  friend, 
And  that  sometimes  the  sable  pall  of  death 

Conceals  the  fairest  boon  His  love  can  send. 
If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life, 

And  stand  within,  and  all  God's  working  see, 
We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and  strife, 

And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a  key. 

But  not  to-day.     Then  be  content,  poor  heart! 

God's  plans,  like  lilies  pure  and  white,  unfold; 
We  must  not  tear  the  close-shut  leaves  apart; 

Time  will  reveal  the  calyxes  of  gold. 
And  if,  through  patient  toil  we  reach  the  land 

Where  tired  feet,  with  sandals  loosed,  may  rest, 
When  we  shall  clearly  know  and  understand, 

I  think  that  we  shall  say  that  "God  knew  best." 

MAY  RILEY  SMITH. 

THE  PURPOSE  OF  LIFE 

•  Do  THE  tears  that  arise  in  the  heat  of  the  strife 
Seem  to  hide  from  your  vision  the  purpose  of  life? 
Do  the  myriad  cares  of  laborious  days 
Leave  a  doubt  in  your  heart  whether  living  them  pays? 

Banish  doubt  and  plod  on.     Life  was  given  to  man 
As  a  part  of  Creation's  mysterious  plan; 
Each  must  carry  what  burdens  the  years  may  bestow 
Until  burdens  and  bearers  alike  are  laid  low. 

At  the  end  of  the  road  is  a  couch  with  a  pall, 
And  it  may  be  the  couch  is  the  end  of  it  all; 
Or  it  may  be  the  spirit,  released  from  the  clod, 
Shares  the  freedom  of  Time  with  the  infinite  God. 

'T  is  but  folly  to  dig  into  moss-covered  creeds; 
Let  your  life  be  a  record  of  generous  deeds. 
Not  the  wisest  may  fathom  Futurity's  plan, 
But  the  weakest  may  live  as  become th  a  man. 

FRANK  PUTNAM. 

DEATH'S  GUERDON 

SECURE  in  death  he  keeps  the  hearts  he  had; 

Two  women  have  forgot  the  bitter  truth; 
To  one  he  is  but  her  sweet  little  lad; 

To  one  the  husband  of  her  youth. 

LlZETTE    WOOD  WORTH    REESE. 


240  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

VI  ET  ARMIS 

'T  is  an  ancient  Roman  proverb: 
"Whoso  braveth  desperate  odds, 

Wins  the  potent  stars  to  aid  him, 
And  the  favor  of  the  gods!" 

Every  brave  and  strong  endeavor 

Helps  heroic  souls  to  rise 
Unto  higher  heights  of  triumph  — 

Nearer  to  the  smiling  skies. 

Life  is  but  a  broad  arena  — 

But  a  mighty  contest-ring, 
And  the  struggle,  to  the  victor, 

Doth  a  glorious  guerdon  bring. 

Be  the  prize  you  seek,  my  brother, 
Where  the  battle-banners  flame, 

Knowledge,  wisdom,  hand  of  woman, 
Power,  or  station,  wealth,  or  fame, 

Be  the  first  to  join  the  onset, 

Though  you  traverse  flood  and  fire; 

Smite,  relentless,  every  foeman 

That  would  foil  your  heart's  desire. 

Knightly  faith,  and  Roman  courage, 
Live,  and  hold  the  vantage  still; 

Valor  wins  the  victor's  garland  — 
You  can  conquer  if  you  will! 

ANDREW  DOWNING. 

SUN  OR  SATELLITE? 

SHALL  we  walk  by  the  stars  instead  of  the  sun? 

Falling  down  in  the  dark,  —  never  able  to  run? 

Shall  Eternal  Light  more  than  plain  daylight  afford 

Us  the  knowledge  we  seek  and  the  Spirit's  strong  sword? 

Nay  and  Yea!  Fellow  man!     Neither  light  can  we  lose; 

But  sea-captains  know  all  is  dark  if  we  choose 

The  wise  compass  to  scorn;  neither  stars  nor  the  sun 

Then  avail;  Inner  Light,  Love!  doth  light  every  one  — 

Whether  running  or  walking  or  at  play,  — 

Love-light,  as  the  compass,  is  guide  night  and  day. 

MARY  H.  HULL. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  241 

SUNKEN  GOLD 

IN  dim  green  depths  rot  ingot-laden  ships; 

And  gold  doubloons,  that  from  the  drowned  hand  fell, 

Lie  nestled  in  the  ocean-flower's  bell 
With  love's  old  gifts,  once  kissed  by  long-drowned  lips; 
And  round  some  wrought  gold  cup  the  sea  grass  whips, 

And  hides  lost  pearls,  near  pearls  still  in  their  shell, 

Where  sea-weed  forests  fill  each  ocean  dell 
And  seek  dim  sunlight  with  their  restless  tips. 

So  lie  the  wasted  gifts,  the  long-lost  hopes 

Beneath  the  now  hushed  surface  of  myself, 

In  lonelier  depths  than  where  the  diver  gropes, 
They  lie,  deep,  deep;  but  I  at  times  behold 

In  doubtful  glimpses,  on  some  reefy  shelf, 

The  gleam  of  irrecoverable  gold. 

EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON. 

LIFE 

BEHOLD  us  toiling  up  a  mountain  side, 

Its  summit  we  attain; 
Then  with  increasing  impetus  descend, 

And  breathless  reach  the  plain. 

And  so  the  steeps  of  life  are  slowly  passed, 

Until,  its  zenith  won, 
Adown  its  slopes  we  glide  —  its  years  like  trees 

Flit  by  —  and  life  is  done. 

BELLE  R.  HARBISON. 

THE  FEAST  OF   THE  DEAD 

DOWN  old  ways  the  monks  pass  ringing 
Masses  for  the  lost  dead;  bringing 
Strange  white  herds  to  join  their  singing  — 
Miserere,  Domine. 

Hunted,  lonely,  waked  from  sleeping, 
In  the  haunted  stillness  creeping, 
Timid  shadows  linger  weeping  — 
Miserere,  Domine. 

From  their  tombs  in  grave-sheets  mobbing,  — 
Listen  to  their  heart-sick  sobbing 
Through  the  mellow  moonlight  throbbing  — 
Miserere,  Domine. 


242  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Golden  lilies,  fragrance  trailing, 
Shades  of  blood  their  fairness  veiling, 
Tremble  at  the  hopeless  wailing  — 
Miserere,  Domine. 

Cypress  plumes  in  night-winds  blowing, 
Wild  white  roses  incense  sowing, 
Stir  the  air  to  mystic  knowing — 
Miserere,  Domine. 

Ever  nearer,  clearer,  calling, 
On  they  sweep  with  shrieks  appalling, 
Echoes  from  dark  archways  falling  — 
Miserere,  Domine. 


Now  at  last  they  pause,  slow  kneeling, 
Silence  softly  on  them  stealing; 
Hark,  the  bells  have  ceased  their  pealing  — 
Miserere,  Domine. 

Softly,  softly,  grave-stones  closing, 
Shut  the  dead  to  mute  reposing 
Back  within  the  warm  earth  dozing  — 

Miserere,  Domine. 

And  the  sun,  glad  day  betraying,  — 
Down  the  paling  highway  straying, 
Only  two  brown  monks  finds  praying  — 
Miserere,  Domine. 

CHAKLOTTE  BECKER. 

TO   THE  DEPARTED 

I  KNOW  thou  hast  gone  to  the  place  of  thy  rest, 

Then  why  should  my  soul  be  sad? 
I  know  thou  hast  gone  where  the  weary  are  blest. 

Where  the  mourner  looks  up  and  is  glad. 

Where  Love  casts  aside,  in  the  land  of  its  birth, 

The  stains  that  it  gathered  in  this, 
And  Hope,  the  sweet  singer  that  gladdened  the  earth, 

Sits  asleep  on  the  bosom  of  Bliss. 

I  know  thou  hast  gone  where  thy  forehead  is  starred 
With  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  thy  soul; 

Where  the  light  of  thy  loveliness  cannot  be  marred 
Nor  thy  heart  be  flung  from  its  goal. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  243 

I  know  thou  hast  drunk  of  the  Lethe  that  flows 

In  the  land  where  they  do  not  forget; 
That  casts  over  memory  only  repose, 

And  takes  from  it  only  regret. 

In  thy  far-away  dwelling,  wherever  it  be, 

I  know  thou  hast  glimpses  of  mine; 
And  the  Love  that  made  all  things  as  music  to  me, 

I  have  not  yet  learned  to  resign. 

In  the  hush  of  the  night,  on  the  waste  of  the  sea, 

Or  alone  with  the  breeze  on  the  hill, 
I  have  ever  a  presence  which  whispers  of  thee, 

And  my  spirit  lies  down  and  is  still. 

This  eye  must  be  dark  which  so  long  has  been  dim, 

Ere  again  it  can  gaze  upon  thine; 
But  my  heart  has  revealings  of  thee  and  thy  home, 

In  many  a  token  and  sign. 

I  never  look  up  with  a  vow  to  the  sky, 

But  a  light  like  thy  beauty  is  there; 
And  I  hear  a  low  murmur  like  thine  in  reply, 

When  I  pour  out  my  spirit  in  prayer. 

And  though,  like  a  mourner  that  sits  by  the  tomb, 

I  am  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  care, 
Yet  the  grief  of  my  spirit  —  oh!  call  it  not  gloom  — 

Is  not  the  wild  grief  of  despair. 

By  sorrow  revealed,  as  the  stars  are  by  night, 

Far  off  a  bright  vision  appears, 
And  Hope,  like  the  rainbow,  a  creature  of  light, 

Is  born,  like  the  rainbow,  in  tears. 

ANONYMOUS. 


A  SONG 

ALL  in  an  April  wood, 

Met  I  with  Grief; 
As  I  plucked  violets 

And  the  young  leaf. 

All  in  an  April  wood, 

Dark  Grief  I  met; 
Dark  Grief,  now  I  am  old, 

Bides  with  me  yet. 

LlZETTE   WOODWORTH   REESE. 


244  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

THERE  IS  A  MUSIC  IN   THE  MARCH  OF  STARS 

THERE  is  a  music  in  the  march  of  stars, 
And  song  that  fills  the  pulses  of  the  sea, 
That  whispers  in  the  wind,  and  piteously 

Sobs  in  the  rain,  a  chant  that  grates  and  jars 

In  the  dull  thunder's  heart  that  makes  or  mars 
The  song  of  nature,  the  great  world-song  that  we 
Hear  loud  above  us,  the  great  symphony 

That  throbs  from  life  against  death's  barrier  bars. 

What  is  the  music  of  the  song  of  lif  e  ? 

What  is  its  theme,  —  of  heaven  or  of  hell? 
We  know  not:  joy  and  grief  and  love  and  strife 
Are  mingled  there,  nor  shall  the  answer  be 

Till  the  great  trumpet  of  God's  doom  shall  tell 
The  thundered  keynote  to  the  land  and  sea. 

HERBERT  BATES. 

WHEN  MY   TURN  COMES 

WHEN  my  turn  comes,  dear  shipmates  all, 

Oh,  do  not  weep  for  me; 
Wrap  me  up  in  a  hammock  tight, 
And  put  me  into  the  sea; 
For  it's  no  good  weeping 
When  a  shipmate's  sleeping, 
And  the  long  watch  keeping 
At  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

But  think  of  me  sometimes  and  say: 

"  He  did  his  duty  right, 
And  strove  the  best  he  knew  to  please 
His  captain  in  the  fight"  ; 
But  it's  no  use  weeping 
When  a  shipmate's  sleeping, 
And  the  long  watch  keeping 
Through  the  long,  long  night. 

And  let  my  epitaph  be  these  words: 

"Cleared  for  this  port,  alone, 
A  craft  that  was  staunch,  and  sound,  and  true  — 
Destination  unknown"  ; 

And  there's  no  good  weeping 
When  a  shipmate's  sleeping, 
And  the  long  watch  keeping 
All  alone,  all  alone. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  245 

And  mark  this  well,  my  shipmates  dear, 

Alone  the  long  night  through, 
Up  there  in  the  darkness  behind  the  stars 
I  '11  look  out  sharp  for  you; 
So,  there  's  no  good  weeping 
When  a  shipmate  's  sleeping, 
And  the  long  watch  keeping 
All  the  long  night  through. 

BARRETT  EASTMAN. 


THE  DEAD  CHILD 

BUT  yesterday  she  played  with  childish  things 

With  toys  and  painted  fruit. 
To-day  she  may  be  speeding  on  bright  wings 

Beyond  the  stars!    We  ask.     The  stars  are  mute. 

But  yesterday  her  doll  was  all  in  all; 

She  laughed  and  was  content. 
To-day  she  will  not  answer  if  we  call: 

She  dropped  no  toys  to  show  the  way  she  went. 

But  yesterday  she  smiled  and  ranged  with  art 

Her  playthings  on  the  bed. 
To-day  and  yesterday  are  leagues  apart! 

She  will  not  smile  to-day,  for  she  is  dead. 

GEORGE  BARLOW. 

IF  I  SHOULD  WAKE 

IP  I  should  wake,  on  some  soft,  silent  night, 
When  the  west  wind  strayed  from  the  garden's  bloom, 
To  creep,  with  fitful  touches,  through  the  room 

And  see  thee  standing  in  the  space  of  light, 

Making  the  dusk  about  thee  faintly  bright, 
With  the  old  smile,  like  starlight  in  the  gloom, 
Would  my  heart  leap  to  claim  thee  from  the  tomb, 

Without  a  doubt  to  jar  its  full  delight? 

Or  should  I  wait,  with  longing  arms  stretched  wide, 
And  know,  with  sudden  trembling  and  amaze, 
Some  subtle  change  in  all  thy  being  wrought 

Since  thou  by  death  wast  touched  and  glorified? 
Then  come  not  back,  lest  I  should  go  my  ways 
Bereft  anew  of  love's  dear,  changeless  thought. 

EMILY  HUNTINGTON  MILLER. 


246  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

BEYOND 

BEYOND  the  prison  cell 

Release! 
Beyond  the  stormy  passage 

Peace! 
Beyond  the  starless  night 

The  great  Sun's  rising  — 
Beyond  these  wilds  a  home 
Of  Death's  devising. 

After  tumultuous  years 

To  creep 
Within  a  lonely  room 

And  sleep! 
After  the  exigence 

Of  human  hunger, 
Bread,  and  lodging,  and  wine 
To  need  no  longer! 

How  I  have  longed  for  this!  — 

And  yet 
How  can  I  go  content  — 

Forget 

All  that  was  dear  in  life 
Entwined  about  you? 
How  can  I  pass  Beyond 
In  peace  without  you? 

ALLAN  MUNIER. 

BEAUTIFUL  DEATH 

O  PAINTER,  paint  me  autumn  woods  when  now 
Yellow  and  green,  russet  and  gold  and  red, 
And  purple  and  brown,  and  all  the  glory  shed 

Upon  the  world  makes  earth  like  heaven's  brow; 

When  every  tree  and  every  separate  bough 
Glow  like  the  sunset  skies  when  day  has  fled, 
And  mellow  light  with  sense  of  peace  is  wed, 

While  grateful  hearts  their  love  to  God  avow. 

O  paint  me  this,  that  I  may  ever  see 
The  vision  fair,  where  life  in  its  decay 
Speaks  not  of  death,  but  immortality; 

More  richly  glowing  on  its  dying  day 

Than  when  spring  sang  of  beauty  yet  to  be, 
And  all  the  flowers  close  wrapped  and  hidden  lay. 

JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING. 


IN   THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  247 

EARTH   TO  EARTH 

I  STOOD  to  hear  that  bold 
Sentence  of  grit  and  mould, 

"Earth  to  earth";  they  thrust 

On  his  coffin  dust; 
Stones  struck  against  his  grave: 
Oh,  the  old  days,  the  brave! 

Just  with  the  pebble's  fall, 
Grave-digger  you  turn  all 

Bliss  to  bereaving; 

To  catch  the  cleaving 
Of  Atropos'  fine  shears 
Would  less  hurt  human  ears. 

Live  senses  that  death  dooms! 
For  friendship  in  drear  rooms, 

Slow-lighting  faces, 

Hand-clasps,  embraces, 
Ashes  on  ashes  grind: 
Oh,  poor  lips  left  behind! 

MICHAEL  FIELD. 

WIDOWHOOD 

Now  is  she  crowned  with  perfectness  at  last. 
She  bends  her  head  no  more  —  the  soul  hath  passed 
That  is  a  part  of  hers.     Still  in  earth's  strife 
She  labors,  knowing  that  Heaven  hath  her  life. 

M.  ELIZABETH  GROUSE. 

THE  SAD  MOTHER 

0  WHEN  the  half-light  weaves 
Wild  shadows  on  the  floor, 

How  ghostly  come  the  withered  leaves 
Stealing  about  my  door! 

1  sit  and  hold  my  breath, 
Lone  in  the  lonely  house; 

Naught  breaks  the  silence  still  as  death, 
Only  a  creeping  mouse. 

The  patter  of  leaves  it  may  be, 

But  like  a  patter  of  feet, 
The  small  feet  of  my  own  baby 

That  never  felt  the  heat. 


248  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

The  small  feet  of  my  son, 

Cold  as  the  graveyard  sod; 
My  little,  dumb,  unchristened  one 

That  may  not  win  to  God. 

"Come  in,  dear  babe,"  I  cry, 

Opening  the  door  so  wide. 
The  leaves  go  stealing  softly  by; 

How  dark  it  is  outside! 

And  though  I  kneel  and  pray 

Long  on  the  threshold-stone, 
The  little  feet  press  on  their  way, 

And  I  am  ever  alone. 

KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON. 


L'ENVOI 

WHERE  are  the  loves  that  we  loved  before, 
When  once  we  are  alone,  and  shut  the  door? 
No  matter  whose  the  arms  that  held  me  fast, 
The  arms  of  Darkness  hold  me  at  the  last. 
No  matter  down  what  primrose  path  I  tend, 
I  kiss  the  lips  of  Silence  in  the  end. 
No  matter  on  what  heart  I  found  delight, 
I  come  again  unto  the  breast  of  Night. 
No  matter  when  or  how  Love  did  befall, 
'T  is  loneliness  that  loves  me  best  of  all. 
And  in  the  end  she  claims  me,  and  I  know 
That  she  will  stay,  though  all  the  rest  may  go. 
No  matter  whose  the  eyes  that  I  would  keep 
Near  in  the  dark,  't  is  in  the  eyes  of  Sleep 
That  I  must  look  and  look  forevermore, 
When  once  I  am  alone  and  shut  the  door. 

WlLLA   SlBERT   GATHER. 

MY  SAINT 

MY  arms  are  empty,  and  my  eyes, 

That  cannot  see  her  little  face, 
Look  on  the  world  in  dull  surprise 

To  find  it  such  a  dreary  place. 

What  wonder  that  her  rosy  feet 

Turned  from  the  earthly  path  they  trod, 

Faltered,  and  found  the  starry  street, 
The  rainbow  way  that  leads  to  God? 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  249 

With  smiling  lips  she  tried  to  frame 

A  word  of  parting  or  of  prayer 
They  only  dimpled  to  my  name, 

And  smiled  again,  and  rested  there. 

Within  the  hollow  of  my  breast, 

Where  once  my  heart  beat  fervently, 

A  chapel  I  have  reared  and  blest 
And  there  enshrined  her  memory. 

Only  white  thoughts  may  enter  here, 

To  scatter  incense  sweet  and  faint, 
Kneel  with  the  priest  who  worships  near, 

Or  serve  the  altar  of  my  saint. 

Love  is  the  priest,  and  night  and  day, 
With  folded  wings  and  drooping  head, 

He  kneels  before  the  shrine  to  pray, 
And  whisper  masses  for  the  dead. 

ANNE  DEVOOBE. 

REMEMBRANCE 

I  THINK  that  we  retain  of  our  dead  friends 

And  absent  ones  no  general  portraiture; 

That  perfect  memory  does  not  long  endure, 
But  fades  and  fades  until  our  own  life  ends. 
Unconsciously,  forgetfulness  attends 

That  grief  for  which  there  is  no  cure, 

But  leaves  of  each  lost  one  some  record  sure,  — 
A  look,  an  act,  a  tone,  —  something  that  lends 
Relief  and  consolation,  not  regret. 

Even  that  poor  mother  mourning  her  dead  child, 
Whose  agonizing  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

Whose  bleeding  heart  cannot  be  reconciled 
Unto  the  grave's  embrace,  —  even  she  shall  yet 

Remember  only  when  her  babe  first  smiled! 

JOHN  H.  BONNER. 

BENEATH   THE  WATTLE  BOUGHS 

THE  wattles  were  sweet  with  September's  rain, 

We  drank  in  their  breath  and  the; breath  of  the  spring: 

"Our  pulses  are  strong  with  the  tide  of  life," 
I  said,  "and  one  year  is  so  swift  a  thing!" 

The  land  all  around  was  yellow  with  bloom, 

The  birds  in  the  branches  sang  joyous  and  shrill, 

The  blue  range  rose  'gainst  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
Yet  she  sighed,  "But  death  may  be  stronger  still!" 


250  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Then  I  reached  and  gathered  a  blossomy  bough, 

And  divided  its  clustering  sprays  in  twain, 
"As  a  token  for  each"  (I  closed  one  in  her  hand) 

"Till  we  come  to  the  end  of  the  year  again!" 

Then  the  years  sped  on,  strung  high  with  life; 

And  laughter  and  gold  were  the  gifts  they  gave, 
Till  I  chanced  one  day  on  some  pale  dead  flowers, 

And  spake,  shaking  and  white,  "One  more  gift  I  crave." 
"Nay,"  a  shadow  voice  in  the  air  replied, 

"'Neath  the  blossoming  wattles  you  '11  find  a  grave!" 

FRANCES  TYRELL  GILL. 

MASTER 

MASTER  went  a-hunting, 

When  the  leaves  were  falling; 
We  saw  him  on  the  bridle  path, 

We  hear  him  gayly  calling. 
"O  master,  master,  come  you  back, 
For  I  have  dreamed  a  dream  so  black!" 
A  glint  of  steel  from  bit  and  heel, 
The  chestnut  cantered  faster, 
A  red  flash  seen  amid  the  green, 
And  so  good-bye  to  master. 

Master  came  home  from  hunting, 
Two  silent  comrades  bore  him; 
His  eyes  were  dim,  his  face  was  white, 

The  mare  was  led  before  him. 
"O  master,  master,  is  it  thus 
That  you  have  come  again  to  us?" 

I  held  my  lady's  ice  cold  hand, 
They  bore  the  hurdle  past  her; 
Why  should  they  go  so  soft  and  slow? 
It  matters  not  to  master. 

SIR  ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE. 


MIRAGE 

(Copied  from  an  old  fly-leaf) 

WE  'LL  read  that  book,  we  '11  sing  that  song. 
But  when?     Oh,  when  the  days  are  long; 
When  thoughts  are  free,  and  voices  clear  — 
Some  happy  time  within  the  year. 
The  days  troop  by  with  voiceless  tread, 
The  song  unsung,  the  book  unread. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  251 

We  '11  see  that  friend  and  make  him  feel 
The  weight  of  friendship,  true  as  steel; 
Some  flower  of  sympathy  bestow. 
But  time  sweeps  on  with  steady  flow. 
Until  with  quick,  reproachful  tear 
We  lay  our  flowers  upon  his  bier. 

And  still  we  walk  the  desert  sands, 
And  still  with  trifles  fill  our  hands; 
While  ever,  just  beyond  our  reach, 
A  fairer  purpose  shows  to  each. 
The  deeds  we  have  not  done,  but  willed, 
Remain  to  haunt  us  —  unfulfilled. 

A.  S.  R. 

OUR  SPIRITUAL  STRIVINGS 

O  WATER,  voice  of  my  heart,  crying  in  the  sand! 

All  night  long  crying  with  a  mournful  cry, 
As  I  lie  and  listen  and  cannot  understand 
The  voice  of  my  heart  in  my  side,  or  the  voice  of  the  sea; 

O  water,  crying  for  rest,  is  it  I,  is  it  I? 
All  night  long  the  water  is  crying  to  me. 

Unresting  water,  there  shall  never  be  rest 

Till  the  last  moon  droop  and  the  last  tide  fail, 

And  the  fire  of  the  end  begin  to  burn  in  the  west; 

And  the  heart  shall  be  weary,  and  wonder  and  cry  like  the  sea 
All  life  long  crying  without  avail, 

As  the  water  all  night  long  is  crying  for  me. 

ARTHUR  SYMONS. 

THE  JUDGMENT-BOOK 

THE  Book  was  opened!     Men  in  wonder  stood! 
No  record  kept  of  wrong!     It  told  of  good! 
Each  deed  of  love!     A  Soul  crept  up  in  fright, 
Then  passed  into  the  dark  —  his  page  was  white! 

CLARENCE  URMT. 

LIGHT 

THOU  one  all  perfect  Light, 

Our  lamps  are  lit  at  Thine; 
And  into  darkness,  as  of  night, 

We  go,  to  prove  they  shine. 

M.  ELIZABETH  GROUSE. 


252  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

ALL  SOULS'  DAY 

TO-DAY  is  theirs  —  the  unforgotten  dead  — 

For  strange  and  sweet  communion  set  apart, 

When  the  strong,  living  heart 

Beats  in  the  dissolute  dust,  the  darkened  bed, 

Rebuilds  the  form  beloved,  the  vanished  face, 

Relights  the  blown-out  lamps  o'  the  faded  eyes, 

Touches  the  clay-bound  lips  to  tenderest  speech, 

Saying,  "Awake  —  Arise!" 

To-day  the  warm  hands  of  the  living  reach 

To  chafe  the  cold  hands  of  the  long-loved  dead; 

Once  more  the  lonely  head 

Leans  on  the  loving  breast,  and  feels  the  rain 

Of  falling  tears,  and  listens  yet  again 

To  the  dear  voice  —  the  voice  that  never  in  vain 

Could  sound  the  old  behest. 

Each  seeks  his  own  to-day;  but,  ah,  not  I  —  I  enter  not 
That  sacred  shrine  beneath  the  solemn  sky; 
I  claim  no  commerce  with  the  unforgot. 

My  thoughts  and  prayers  must  be 

Even  where  mine  own  fixed  lot  hereafter  lies, 

With  that  great  company 

For  whom  no  wandering  breeze  of  memory  sighs 

Through  the  dim  prisons  of  imperial  Death: 

They  in  the  black  unfathomed  oubliette 

For  ever  and  ever  set  — 

They,  the  poor  dead  whom  none  remembered. 

ROSAMOND  MARRIOTT  WATSON. 

THE  SHEEP  AND  LAMBS 

ALL  in  the  April  evening, 

April  airs  were  abroad, 
The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 

Passed  me  by  on  the  road. 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 

Passed  me  by  on  the  road; 
All  in  the  April  evening 

I  thought  of  the  Lamb  of  God. 

The  lambs  were  weary,  and  crying 

With  a  weak,  human  cry. 
I  thought  of  the  Lamb  of  God 

Going  meekly  to  die. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  253 

Up  in  the  blue,  blue  mountains 

Dewy  pastures  are  sweet, 
Rest  for  the  little  bodies, 

Rest  for  the  little  feet, 

But  for  the  Lamb  of  God, 

Up  on  the  hilltop  green, 
Only  a  cross  of  shame 

Two  stark  crosses  between. 

All  in  the  April  evening, 

April  airs  were  abroad, 
I  saw  the  sheep  with  their  lambs, 

And  thought  of  the  Lamb  of  God. 

KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON. 


THE  STARRY  HOST 

THE  countless  stars,  which  to  our  human  eye 
Are  fixed  and  steadfast,  each  in  proper  place, 
Forever  bound  to  changeless  points  in  space, 

Rush  with  our  sun  and  planets  through  the  sky, 

And  like  a  flock  of  birds  still  onward  fly; 
Returning  never  whence  began  their  race. 
They  speed  their  ceaseless  way  with  gleaming  face 

As  though  God  bade  them  win  infinity. 

Ah,  whither,  whither  is  their  forward  flight 
Through  endless  time  and  limitless  expanse? 

What  Power  with  unimaginable  might 

First  hurled  them  forth  to  spin  in  tireless  dance? 

What  Beauty  lures  them  on  through  primal  night, 
So  that,  for  them,  to  be  is  to  advance? 

JOHN  LANCASTER  SPALDING. 

BRIEF  LIFE 

THEY  are  not  long,  the  weeping  and  the  laughter, 

Love  and  desire  and  hate: 
I  think  they  have  no  portion  in  us  after 

We  pass  the  gate. 

They  are  not  long,  the  days  of  wine  and  roses: 

Out  of  a  misty  dream 
Our  path  emerges  for  a  while,  then  closes 

Within  a  dream. 

ERNEST  DOWSON. 


254  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

JESUS  WEPT 

AT  eve  He  rested  there  amidst  the  grass, 

And  as  the  stars  shone  out  He  dreamed  of  God, 
His  destiny,  the  kingdom  all  of  glass 

And  gold;  He  watched  the  reapers  homeward  plod; 
Became  aware  of  strength  for  holy  deeds 

Astir  within  Him;  turned  His  eyes  to  where 
The  Great  Sea  rolled  —  a  sight  that  ever  breeds 

A  hunger  for  deep  powers;  felt  that  there 
A  symbol  was  of  His  far-spreading  mind, 

His  restless  strong  desire,  and  marked  perchance 
The  tiny  specks  of  moving  sail;  divined 

Of  time  and  space  the  secret  circumstance, 
And  when  His  gaze  was  wearied,  softly  wept 
And  was  consoled  —  then  to  His  shelter  crept. 

FRANCIS  BROOKS. 

A  BATTLE-CRY 

GIVE  me  a  battle  to  fight, 

Worthy  of  courage  high, 
There  let  me  prove  my  right 

Or  let  me  striving  die. 
What  of  the  weak  who  fall? 

What  of  the  danger  rife? 
I  am  in  love  with  it  all  — 
I  am  in  love  with  life! 

Heroes  are  common  clay, 

Conquerors  are  but  men; 
Courage  has  blazed  their  way, 

Courage  will  win  again! 
Will  makes  the  man  a  god  — 

Then  shall  I  shirk  the  strife? 
Better  beneath  the  sod  — 

I  am  in  love  with  life! 

Weaklings  the  combat  are  fleeing, 

Cowardice  leans  on  time; 
Strength  is  the  glory  of  being, 

Love  makes  our  strength  sublime! 
On  with  the  battle  of  might, 

Brave  hearts  for  drum  and  fife! 
Glorious  is  the  fight  — 

I  am  in  love  with  life! 

LEE  SHIPPEY. 


INTHEMIDSTOFLIFE  255 

TRIOLET 

IT  is  so  common  to  be  dead, 

So  rare  to  be  alive. 
Lift  up,  lift  up  this  drooping  head:  — 
It  is  so  common  to  be  dead. 
Of  millions  death  had  banished 

Be  royal,  and  survive! 
It  is  so  common  to  be  dead,  — 

So  rare  to  be  alive. 

WINIFRED  LUCAS. 

THE  THINGS  IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  DRAWER 

THERE  are  whips  and  tops  and  pieces  of  strings, 
There  are  shoes  which  no  little  feet  wear, 

There  are  bits  of  ribbon  and  broken  rings, 
And  tresses  of  golden  hair; 

There  are  little  dresses  folded  away 

Out  of  the  light  of  the  sunny  day. 

There  are  dainty  jackets  that  never  are  worn, 

There  are  toys  and  models  of  ships, 
There  are  books  and  pictures  all  faded  and  torn, 

And  marked  by  the  finger-tips 
Of  dimpled  hands  that  have  fallen  to  dust; 
Yet  I  strive  to  think  that  the  Lord  is  just. 

But  a  feeling  of  bitterness  fills  my  soul 

Sometimes,  when  I  try  to  pray, 
That  a  Reaper  has  spared  so  many  flowers 

And  taken  mine  away; 
And  I  almost  doubt  if  the  Lord  cin  know 
That  a  mother's  heart  can  love  them  so. 

Then  I  think  of  the  many  weary  ones 

Who  are  waiting  and  watching  to-night 
For  the  slow  return  of  faltering  feet 

That  have  strayed  from  paths  of  right; 
Who  have  darkened  their  lives  by  shame  and  sin, 
Whom  the  snares  of  the  Tempter  have  gathered  in. 

They  wander  afar  in  distant  climes, 

They  perish  by  fire  and  flood, 
And  their  hands  are  black  with  the  direst  crimes 

That  kindle  the  wrath  of  God; 
Yet  a  mother's  song  had  soothed  them  to  rest: 
She  hath  lulled  them  to  slumber  upon  her  breast. 


256  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

And  then  I  think  of  my  children  two  — 

My  babes  that  never  grew  old; 
To  know  they  are  waiting  and  watching  for  you, 

In  the  city  with  streets  of  gold! 
Safe,  safe  from  the  cares  of  the  weary  years, 

From  sorrow  and  sin  and  war; 
And  I  thank  my  God  with  falling  tears 

For  the  things  in  the  bottom  drawer. 

ANONYMOUS. 

GOOD-NIGHT 

"GOOD-NIGHT!" 
So,  hand  firm  clasping  hand, 

We  meetly  close  the  day, 
Unconscious  that  the  angel  band 
Bend  down  to  hear  us  say 

"Good-night," 

In  tender  tones,  or  grave,  or  light; 
For  in  their  Paradise  all  bright 
They  never,  never  say  "Good-night." 

"Good-night!" 
From  cot  and  curtained  bed 

The  sweet  child  accents  come, 
Tired  sprites  who  love  to  tread 

Where  daisies  grow  and  brown  bees  hum  — 

"Good-night." 

In  rosy  dreams  each  past  delight 
Again  will  bless  their  happy  sight, 
So  drowsily  they  lisp,  "Good-night." 

"Good-night!" 

The  silver  stars  proclaim 

In  their  own  grand,  soft  speech, 
While  woodland  warblers  frame 
And  utter  in  the  twilight,  each, 

"Good-night." 

With  sudden,  daring,  darting  flight 
From  blackthorn  hedge  to  cedar  height, 
They  twitter,  chirp,  or  trill,  "Good-night." 

M.  A.  SINCLAIR. 


TALES    IN    THE    TELLING 


THE  ROSE'S  PHILOSOPHY 

WHEN  red  and  white  the  rose  of  June 

Made  merry  all  the  morning  air, 
A  gardener,  with  many  a  tune, 

Went  gathering  the  blossoms  rare. 
His  hands  were  bright  as  any  bloom, 

All  scratched  and  seamed  with  working  there  — 
He  minded  but  the  mild  perfume, 

Knew  only  that  the  work  was  fair. 
And  when  he  spied  the  crimson  dew 

Upon  the  hands  with  labor  worn, 
He  smiled  with  knowledge  deep  and  true; 

"Who  loves  the  rose  must  love  the  thorn." 

ANONYMOUS. 


TALES  IN  THE  TELLING 


PROCRUSTES'  BED 

A  GRECIAN  myth  tells  of  a  giant  grim 
Who  treated  all  alike  who  came  to  him 

Beseeching  shelter.     Them  the  giant  led 
And  bade  repose  upon  an  iron  bed. 

But  when  the  weary  traveller  was  at  rest, 
Fast  to  the  bed  he  bound  the  helpless  guest; 

And  as  he  woke  alarmed,  Procrustes  said, 

His  rule  was  fixed  —  each  guest  must  fit  the  bed. 

Off  came  his  legs  if  he  perchance  were  tall, 
Racked  must  he  be  had  nature  made  him  small. 

So,  strained  or  maimed  by  this  most  ghastly  jest, 
To  fit  his  bed,  was  shaped  each  hapless  guest. 

And  so,  methinks,  by  fickle  fortune  led, 
We  must  conform  to  Destiny's  iron  bed. 

Content  is  he  whose  limits  are  so  near 
That  he  will  never  dream  his  way  not  clear. 

Accursed  is  he  with  stunted  life  and  maimed, 
A  slave  by  stern  misfortune  foully  claimed. 

And  what  of  him  who  racked  'neath  duty's  strain 
Grows  into  greater  stature  through  his  pain? 

So  are  we  all  by  some  grim  sport  of  chance 
Fitted  to  fate  by  force  of  circumstance. 

BEATRICE  HANSCOM. 

259 


260  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

HELIOTROPE 

AMID  the  chapel's  chequered  gloom 

She  laughed  with  Dora  and  with  Flora, 
And  chattered  in  the  lecture-room  — 
The  saucy  little  sophomora! 

Yet  while,  as  in  her  other  schools, 

She  was  a  privileged  transgressor, 
She  never  broke  the  simple  rules 
Of  one  particular  professor 

But  when  he  spoke  of  varied  lore, 

Paroxytones  and  modes  potential, 
She  listened  with  a  face  that  wore 
A  look  half  fond,  half  reverential. 
To  her  that  earnest  voice  was  sweet, 

And,  though  her  love  had  no  confessor, 
Her  girlish  heart  lay  at  the  feet 
Of  that  particular  professor. 

And  he  had  learned,  among  his  books 

That  held  the  lore  of  ages  olden, 
To  watch  those  ever-changing  looks, 
The  wistful  eyes,  the  tresses  golden, 

That  stirred  his  heart  with  passion's  pain 

And  thrilled  his  soul  with  soft  desire, 
And  bade  fond  youth  return  again, 
Crowned  with  its  coronet  of  fire. 

Her  sunny  smile,  her  winsome  ways, 

Were  more  to  him  than  all  his  knowledge, 
And  she  preferred  his  words  of  praise 
To  all  the  honors  of  the  college. 
Yet  "What  am  foolish  I  to  him?" 

She  whispered  to  her  heart's  confessor. 
"She  thinks  me  old  and  gray  and  grim," 
In  silence  pondered  the  professor. 

Yet  once  when  Christmas  bells  were  rung 

Above  ten  thousand  solemn  churches, 
And  swelling  anthems  grandly  sung 

Pealed  through  the  dim  cathedral  arches; 
Ere  home  returning,  filled  with  hope, 
Softly  she  stole  by  gate  and  gable, 
And  a  sweet  spray  of  heliotrope 
Left  on  his  littered  study  table. 


TALES   IN   THE   TELLING  261 

Nor  came  she  more  from  day  to  day 

Like  sunshine  through  the  shadows  rifting; 
Above  her  grave,  far,  far  away, 

The  ever-silent  snows  were  drifting; 

And  those  who  mourned  her  winsome  face 

Found  in  its  stead  a  swift  successor, 
And  loved  another  in  her  place  — 
All,  save  the  silent  old  professor. 

But,  in  the  tender  twilight  gray, 

Shut  from  the  sight  of  carping  critic, 
His  lonely  thoughts  would  often  stray 
From  Vedic  verse  and  tongues  Semitic, 
Bidding  the  ghost  of  vanished  hope 

Mock  with  its  past  the  sad  possessor, 
Of  the  dead  spray  of  heliotrope 
That  once  she  gave  the  old  professor. 

HARRY  THURSTON  PECK. 

THE  DIGGER'S  GRAVE 

HE  sought  Australia's  far-famed  isle, 

Hoping  that  Fortune  on  his  lot  would  smile, 

In  search  for  gold.     When  one  short  year  had  flown, 

He  wrote  the  welcome  tidings  to  his  own 

Betrothed;  told  how  months  of  toiling  vain 

Made  tenfold  sweeter  to  him  sudden  gain; 

With  sanguine  words,  traced  with  love's  eager  hand, 

He  bade  her  join  him  in  this  bright  south  land. 

Oft  he  sat,  his  long  day's  labor  o'er, 

In  his  bush  hut,  he  dreamed  of  home  once  more; 

His  thoughts  to  the  old  country  home  in  Kent 

Returned.     }T  was  Christmas  Day,  and  they  two  went 

O'er  frost  and  snow;  the  Christmas  anthem  rang 

Through  the  old  church,  which  echoed  as  they  sang. 

That  day  had  Philip  courage  gained  to  tell 
His  tale  of  love  to  pretty  Christabel; 
And  she,  on  her  part,  with  ingenuous  grace, 
Endorsed  the  tell-tale  of  her  blushing  face. 
Dream  on,  true  lover!  never,  never  thou 
Shalt  press  the  kiss  of  welcome  on  her  brow. 
E'en  now  a  comrade,  eager  for  thy  gold, 
Above  thy  fond  heart  the  knife  doth  hold  — 
One  stroke,  the  weapon  's  plunged  into  his  breast; 
So  sure  the  aim  that,  like  a  child  at  rest, 
The  murdered  digger  lies,  —  a  happy  smile 
Parts  the  full  manly  bearded  lips  the  while. 


262  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Next  day  they  found  him.     In  his  death-cold  hand, 
He  held  his  last  home  letter,  lately  scanned 
With  love-lit  eyes;  and  next  his  heart  they  found 
A  woman's  kerchief,  which,  when  they  unwound, 
Disclosed  a  lock  of  silken  auburn  hair 
And  portrait  of  a  girl's  face,  fresh  and  fair, 
Dyed  with  the  life-blood  of  his  faithful  heart. 
To  more  than  one  eye,  tears  unbidden  start; 
With  reverent  hands,  and  rough,  unconscious  grace, 
They  laid  him  in  his  lonely  resting-place. 
The  bright-hued  birds  true  nature's  requiem  gave, 
And  wattle-bloom  bestrews  the  digger's  grave. 

SARAH  WELCH. 

FORBY  SUTHERLAND 

(A  Story  of  Botany  Bay,  A.D.  1776} 

A  LANE  of  elms  in  June;  —  the  air 

Of  eve  is  cool  and  calm  and  sweet. 
See!  straying  here  a  youthful  pair, 

With  sad  and  slowly  moving  feet, 

On,  hand  in  hand,  to  yon  gray  gate, 

O'er  which  the  rosy  apples  swing; 
And  there  they  vow  a  mingled  fate, 

One  day  when  George  the  Third  is  king. 

The  ring  scarce  clasped  her  finger  fair, 

When,  tossing  in  their  ivied  tower, 
The  distant  bells  made  all  the  air 

Melodious  with  the  golden  hour. 

Then  sank  the  sun  out  o'er  the  sea, 

Sweet  day  of  courtship  fond,  .  .  .  the  last! 

The  holy  hours  of  twilight  flee 
And  speed  to  join  the  sacred  Past. 

The  house-dove  on  the  moss-grown  thatch 
Is  murmuring  love-songs  to  his  mate, 

As  lovely  Nell  now  lifts  the  latch 
Beneath  the  apples  at  the  gate. 

A  plighted  maid  she  nears  her  home, 
Those  gentle  eyes  with  weeping  red; 

Too  soon  her  swain  must  breast  the  foam, 
Alas!  with  that  last  hour  he  fled! 


TALES    IN   THE    TELLING  263 

And,  ah!  that  dust-cloud  on  the  road, 
Yon  heartless  coach-guard's  blaring  horn; 

But  naught  beside,  that  spoke  or  showed 
Her  sailor  to  poor  Nell  forlorn. 

She  dreams;  and  lo!  a  ship  that  ploughs 

A  foamy  furrow  through  the  seas, 
As,  plunging  gayly,  from  her  bows 

She  scatters  diamonds  on  the  breeze. 

Swift,  homeward  bound,  with  flags  displayed 

In  pennoned  pomp,  with  drum  and  fife, 
And  all  the  proud  old-world  parade 

That  marks  the  man-o'-war  man's  life. 

She  dreams  and  dreams;  her  heart 's  at  sea; 

Dreams  while  she  wears  the  golden  ring; 
Her  spirit  follows  lovingly 

One  humble  servant  of  the  king. 

And  thus  for  years,  since  Hope  survives 

To  cheer  the  maid  and  nerve  the  youth. 
"Forget-me-not!"  —  how  fair  it  thrives 

When  planted  in  the  soil  of  Truth! 

The  skies  are  changed;  and  o'er  the  sea, 

Within  a  calm,  sequestered  nook, 
Rests  at  her  anchor  thankfully 

The  tall-sterned  ship  of  gallant  Cook. 

The  emerald  shores  ablaze  with  flowers, 

The  sea  reflects  the  smiling  sky, 
Soft  breathes  the  air  of  perfumed  bowers  — 

How  sad  to  leave  it  all  and  die! 

To  die,  when  all  around  is  fair 

And  steeped  in  beauty;  —  ah!  't  is  hard 
When  ease  and  joy  succeed  to  care, 

And  rest,  to  "watch"  and  "mounted  guard." 

But  harder  still,  when  one  dear  plan, 

The  end  of  all  his  life  and  cares, 
Hangs  by  a  thread;  the  dying  man 

Most  needs  our  sympathy  and  prayers! 

'T  was  thus  with  Forby  as  he  lay 

Wan  in  his  narrow  canvas  cot; 
Sole  tenant  of  the  lone  "sick  bay," 

Though  "mates"  came  round,  he  heard  them  not. 


264  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

For  days  his  spirit  strove  and  sought, 

But,  ah!  the  frame  was  all  too  weak. 
Some  phantom  strange  it  seemed  he  fought. 

And  vainly  tried  to  rise  and  speak. 

At  last  he  smiled  and  brightened  up, 

The  noonday  bugle  went;  and  he 
Drained  ('t  was  his  last)  the  cooling  cup 

A  messmate  offered  helpfully. 

His  tongue  was  loosed  —  "I  hear  the  horn! 

Ah,  Nell!  my  number  's  flying.     See!  — 
The  horses  too;  —  they  've  had  their  corn. 

Alas,  dear  love!  ...  I  part  from  thee!" 

He  waved  his  wasted  hand,  and  cried, 

"Sweet  Nell!     Dear  maid!     My  own  true  Nell! 

The  coach  won't  wait  for  me!"  .  .  .  and  died  — 
This  was  Forby's  strange  farewell. 

Next  morn  the  barge,  with  muffled  oars, 

Pulls  slowly  forth,  and  leaves  the  slip 
With  flags  half-mast,  and  gains  the  shores, 

While  silence  seals  each  comrade's  lip. 

They  bury  him  beneath  a  tree, 

His  treasure  in  his  bosom  hid. 
What  was  the  treasure?     Go  and  see! 

Long  since  it  burst  his  coffin-lid! 

Nell  gave  to  Forby,  once  in  play, 

Some  hips  of  roses,  with  the  seeds 
Of  hedgerow  plants,  and  flowerets  gay 

(In  England  such  might  count  for  weeds). 

"Take  these,"  cries  smiling  Nell,  "to  sow 

In  foreign  lands;  and  when  folks  see 
The  English  roses  bloom  and  grow, 

Some  one  may  bless  an  unknown  me." 

The  turf  lies  green  on  Forby's  bed, 

A  hundred  years  have  passed,  and  more, 

But  twining  over  Forby's  head 

Are  Nell's  sweet  roses  on  that  shore. 

The  violet  and  the  eglantine, 

With  sweet-breathed  cowslips,  deck  the  spot, 
And  nestling  'mid  them  in  the  shine, 

The  meek,  blue-eyed  Forget-me-not! 

GEORGE  GORDON  M'CBAE. 


TALES    IN    THE    TELLING  265 

CHIQUITA:  A   LEGEND  OF   THE  WESTERN  SEAS 

HER  name?     Chiquita.     Ah,  senor, 

See  how  the  sea- weed  winds  around  her! 

Dead?     Yes;  for  many  an  hour  before 
I  came  and  found  her. 

The  gentle  waves  had  laid  her  down 
Here  on  the  sands,  and  heaped  her  over 

With  soft,  sweet-smelling  foam,  and  brown 
Long-leaved  sea  clover. 

And  hark!     The  sea-birds  sing  her  dirge, 

And  all  the  chorus  of  the  ocean 
Makes  mournful  music,  surge  on  surge, 
In  sad  devotion. 

Last  night  she  lay  within  these  arms  — 
Her  mother's  arms,  senor,  no  other  — 

And  in  her  sleep  beheld  the  charms 
Of  sleep's  twin-brother. 

I  know,  for  while  I  watched  her,  tears 
Gleamed  in  the  low  light  of  the  embers; 

And  then  she  sighed  the  sigh  one  hears 
And  —  one  remembers. 

From  out  her  troubled  lips  words  came 

Mixed  with  the  sigh  —  words  wet  with  sorrow: 

"I  die  for  thee!"  and  then  a  name, 
And  then,  "To-morrow"  — 

I  did  not  understand,  you  see  — 

How  could  I  tell  her  days  were  numbered? 

But  God  had  willed  this  thing  to  be 
And  I  —  I  slumbered. 

Well,  now  I  find  her  dead  and  cold  — 

Senor,  the  story 's  old,  but  never 
Castilian  blood  grows  cold  or  old  — 

It  burns  hot  ever. 

Therefore  I  do  not  blame  her  —  no, 

Others  have  loved  with  song  and  laughter 

And  then,  through  loving,  learned  to  know 
What  woe  comes  after. 


266  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Love  is  a  glorious  thing,  senor, 

When,  in  the  dusk,  guitars  are  playing 

And  on  the  smooth  adobe  floor 
The  dance  is  swaying  — 

But  love  is  bitter  when  he  goes 

And  days  pass  on  and  leave  one  weeping  — 

The  sun  has  blighted  many  a  rose 
Given  to  his  keeping. 

Well,  so  the  world  was  made,  and  I 
Do  not  lament  that  darkness  covers 

The  shining  brightness  of  the  sky 
That  smiles  on  lovers. 

To  me  night  came  long  years  ago  — 

Night  in  whose  gloom  I  often  stumbled  — 

But  pride  sustained  me  still,  although 
My  pride  was  humbled. 

Pride  in  Chiquita  —  that  was  strong  — 
Pride  in  myself  —  there  's  none  remaining: 

This  was  my  secret.     Right  or  wrong, 
I  'm  not  complaining 

That  so  it  is,  nor  that  all  pride 

Has  left  me  now  —  all  things  are  seeming; 

And  out  there,  rocking  with  the  tide, 
There  is  no  dreaming  — 

Chiquita,  daughter!     We  shall  be 

Racked  by  regret  from  henceforth  never. 

I  seek  the  silence  of  the  sea  — 
Farewell  —  forever!  — 

BARRETT  EASTMAN. 

AN  INTERNATIONAL  EPISODE 

WE  were  ordered  to  Samoa  from  the  coast  of  Panama, 

And  for  two  long  months  we  sailed  the  unequal  sea, 
Till  we  made  the  horseshoe  harbor  with  its  curving  coral  bar, 

Smelt  the  good  green  smell  of  grass  and  shrub  and  tree. 
We  had  barely  room  for  swinging  with  the  tide  — 

There  were  many  of  us  crowded  in  the  bay: 
Three  Germans,  and  the  English  ship,  beside 

Our  three  —  and  from  the  Trenton,  where  she  lay, 
Through  the  sunset  calms  and  after, 
We  could  hear  the  shrill,  sweet  laughter 

Of  the  children's  voices  on  the  shore  at  play. 


TALES   IN    THE   TELLING  267 

We  all  knew  a  storm  was  coming,  but,  dear  God!  no  man  could 
dream 

Of  the  furious  hell-horrors  of  that  day: 

Through  the  roar  of  winds  and  waters  we  could  hear  wild  voices 
scream  — 

See  the  rocking  masts  reel  by  us  through  the  spray. 
In  the  gale  we  drove  and  drifted  helplessly, 

With  our  rudder  gone,  our  engine-fires  drowned, 
And  none  might  hope  another  hour  to  see; 

For  all  the  air  was  desperate  with  the  sound 
Of  the  brave  ships  rent  asunder  — 
Of  the  shrieking  souls  sucked  under, 

'Neath  the  waves,  where  many  a  good  man's  grave  was  found. 

About  noon,  upon  our  quarter,  from  the  deeper  gloom  afar 

Came  the  English  man-of-war  Calliope: 

"We  have  lost  our  anchors,  comrades,  and,  though  small  the 
chances  are, 

We  must  steer  for  safety  and  the  open  sea." 
Then  we  climbed  aloft  to  cheer  her  as  she  passed 

Through  the  tempest  and  the  blackness  and  the  foam : 
Now,  God  speed  you,  though  the  shout  should  be  our  last, 

Through  the  channel  where  the  maddened  breakers  comb, 
Through  the  wild  sea's  hill  and  hollow, 
On  the  path  we  cannot  follow, 

To  your  women  and  your  children  and  your  home." 

Oh,  remember  it,  good  brothers.  We  two  people  speak  one  tongue, 

And  your  native  land  was  mother  to  our  land; 
But  the  head,  perhaps,  is  hasty  when  the  nation's  heart  is  young, 

And  we  prate  of  things  we  do  not  understand. 
But  the  day  when  we  stood  face  to  face  with  death 

(Upon  whose  face  few  men  may  look  and  tell), 
As  long  as  you  could  hear,  or  we  had  breath, 

Four  hundred  voices  cheered  you  out  of  hell. 
By  the  will  of  that  stern  chorus, 
By  the  motherland  which  bore  us, 

Judge  if  we  do  not  love  each  other  well. 

CAROLINE  DUER. 

A   CHRISTMAS  CAMP  ON   THE  SAN  GABR'EL 

LAMAR  and  his  rangers  camped  at  dawn  on  the  banks  of  the  San 

Gabr'el, 

Under  the  mossy  live  oaks,  in  the  heart  of  a  lonely  dell; 
With  the  cloudless  Texas  sky  above  and  the  mesquite  grass 

below, 
And  all  the  prairie  lying  still,  in  a  misty,  silvery  glow. 


268  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

The  sound  of  the  horses  cropping  grass,  the  fall  of  a  nut,  full  ripe, 
The  stir  of  a  weary  soldier  or  the  tap  of  a  smoked-out  pipe, 
Fell  only  as  sounds  in  a  dream  may  fall  upon  a  drowsy  ear, 
Till  the  captain  said,   "'T  is  Christmas  Day!  so,  boys,  we'll 
spend  it  here. 

"For  the  sake  of  our  homes  and  our  childhood  we  '11  give  the 

day  its  dues." 
Then  some  leaped  up  to  prepare  the  feast  and  some  sat  still  to 

muse, 

And  some  pulled  scarlet  yupon  berries  and  wax-white  mistletoe, 
To  garland  the  stand-up  rifles  —  for  Christmas  has  no  foe. 

And  every  heart  had  a  pleasant  thought  or  a  tender  memory 
Of  unforgotten  Christmastides  that  nevermore  might  be; 
They  felt  the  thrill  of  a  mother's  kiss,  they  heard  the  happy 

psalm, 
And  the  men  grew  still  and  all  the  camp  was  full  of  a  gracious 

calm. 

"Halt!"  cried  the  sentinel;  and  lo!  from  out  of  the  brushwood 

near 

There  came,  with  a  weary,  fainting  step  a  man  in  mortal  fear — 
A  brutal  man,  with  a  tiger's  heart  and  yet  he  made  this  plea: 
"I  am  dying  with  hunger  and  thirst,  so  do  what  you  will  with 

me." 

They  knew  him  well;  who  did  not  know  the  cruel  San  Sabatan  — 

The  robber  of  the  Rio  Grande,  who  spared  not  any  man? 

In  low,  fierce  tones  they  spoke  his  name  and  looked  at  a  coil  of 

rope; 
And  the  man  crouched  down  in  abject  fear  —  how  could  he  dare 

to  hope? 

The  captain  had  just  been  thinking  of  the  book  his  mother 

read, 
Of  a  Saviour  born  on  Christmas  Day,  who  bowed  on  the  cross 

His  head; 
Blending  the  thought  of  his  mother's  tears  with  the  holy  mother's 

grief  — 
And  when  he  saw  San  Sabatan  he  thought  of  the  dying  thief. 

He  spoke  to  the  men  in  whispers  and  they  heeded  the  words  he 

said, 

And  brought  to  the  perishing  robber  water  and  meat  and  bread. 
He  ate  and  drank  like  a  famished  wolf,  and  then  lay  down  to 

rest, 
And  the  camp,  perchance,  had  a  stiller  feast  for  its  strange 

Christmas  guest. 


TALES   IN   THE   TELLING  269 

But  as  ever  the  morning  dawned  again  the  captain  touched  his 
hand, 

"Here  is  a  horse  and  some  meat  and  bread;  fly  to  the  Rio  Grande! 

Fly  for  your  life!     We  follow  hard;  touch  nothing  on  your  way  — 

Your  life  was  only  spared  because  'twas  Jesus  Christ's  birth 
day." 

He  watched  him  ride  as  the  falcon  flies,  then  turned  to  the  break 
ing  day; 

The  men  awoke,  the  Christmas  berries  were  quietly  cast  away; 

And,  full  of  thought,  they  saddled  away,  and  rode  off  into  the 
west  — 

May  God  be  merciful  unto  them  as  they  were  to  their  guest! 

AMELIA  BARR. 


THE  MEN  OF  MONOMOY 

TELL  ye  the  story  far  and  wide, 

Ring  out  ye  bells  with  mournful  toll 
For  the  valiant  crew  of  Monomoy 

Who  sleep  on  Handkerchief  Shoal. 

Brave  were  the  men  of  Monomoy 

Who  went  with  a  willing  hand 
To  bring  their  storm-wrecked  fellow-men 

Through  the  angry  seas  to  land. 

For  the  gale  blew  fierce,  and  the  seas  ran  wild, 

And  the  crew  were  all  but  lost, 
But  the  boat  sped  on  through  the  angry  deep 

Like  shell  on  the  breakers  tossed. 

True  were  the  men  of  Monomoy, 

Each  true  to  his  duty's  call; 
No  thought  of  self,  no  dread  of  death, 

Eyes  seaward,  and  that  was  all. 

And  the  wreck  was  made,  and  the  boat  turned  back, 

When  a  monster  wave  swept  o'er 
And  swallowed  the  boat  of  Monomoy, 

And  the  crew  were  seen  no  more. 

Dead  are  the  men  of  Monomoy, 

They  sleep  in  a  watery  grave; 
They  rest  upon  the  treacherous  shoal 

With  the  men  they  sought  to  save. 


270  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

And  the  storms  sweep  down,  and  the  seas  roll  in, 

And  the  ships  their  course  pursue, 
But  the  sea  holds  fast  to  its  noble  sons, 

For  it  loves  strong  hearts  and  true. 

Great  are  the  men  of  Monomoy, 
Men  whose  names  shall  never  fade; 

No  soldiers  on  the  battlefield 
E'er  nobler  sacrifice  made. 

And  proud  are  the  wives  of  Monomoy, 

Sons  proud  of  their  valiant  dead; 
And  proud  is  the  world  of  souls  like  theirs, 

Whose  glory  shall  ever  spread. 

Tell  ye  the  story  far  and  wide, 

Ring  out  ye  bells  with  mournful  toll 

For  the  valiant  sons  of  Monomoy 
Who  sleep  on  Handkerchief  Shoal. 

JOE  CONE. 

CITY  BLOOD  AND  COUNTRY  JAY 

CLARENCE  Percy  Smith  De  Vere 

Was  a  youth  of  high  degree, 
City-bred  and  holding  dear 

Questions  of  urbanity; 
In  his  clothing  most  precise, 
In  his  language  very  nice, 
Keen  of  wit,  at  business  good. 
Fond  of  sport  —  't  was  understood 

He  was  all  he  ought  to  be. 

Since  the  custom  is  to  take 

Outings  in  the  summer  time, 
Spent  near  some  sweet  sylvan  lake, 

Far  from  city  soot  and  grime, 
Clarence  chose  a  quiet  place, 
Packed  his  trunk  and  dress-suit  case, 
Paid  his  calls,  his  bills  and  so 
Found  himself  prepared  to  go 

To  that  cooler  rural  clime. 

On  the  morrow  Clarence  rose 

Early,  with  the  summer  sun; 
Donned  his  well-pressed  outing  clothes; 

Ate  his  breakfast;  then,  like  one 


TALES    IN    THE   TELLING  271 

Who  would  condescend  a  while, 
Took  his  stick  and  forth  in  style 
Walked  the  village  through  and  through; 
Saw  some  natives,  just  a  few 
Trying  hard  a  race  to  run. 

As  they  ran,  these  rustic  youth, 

Clarence  stood  beside  the  place, 
Pitying  them  because,  in  sooth, 

He  could  set  a  better  pace; 
When  they  saw  him,  "Come,"  they  said  — 
Willingly  was  Clarence  led 
Into  simple  country  joys 
With  those  simple  country  boys, 

When  they  urged  him,  too,  to  race. 

Clarence  lent  his  stick  for  goal  — 

And  the  last  to  touch  it  should 
Stand  a  treat  for  every  soul 

Who  took  part;  and  seven  stood 
Ready  for  the  starter's  word; 
"Go!"  —  and  Clarence  fairly  whirred, 
Flew  with  all  his  might  and  main, 
Reached  the  goal  and  touched  the  cane, 

Beat  them  all  —  he  thought  he  would. 

Soon  his  joy  is  turned  to  grief, 

Triumph  frosted  in  the  bud  — 
He  to  run  who  was  so  lief 

Feels  the  shame  speed  through  his  blood  — 
No  one  else  would  touch  that  stick  — 
First  and  last  was  he  —  he  's  sick  — 
Standing  treat  for  seven  jays, 
Grinning,  nudging  as  he  pays  — 

Pays  to  learn  his  name  is  mud. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  REVERSE  OF   THE  GOLDEN  SHIELD 

(An  Easter  Morning  Reverie} 

ALONG  the  chancel  rail,  and  on  the  altar  stair, 
The  sweetest  lilies  give  their  fragrance  to  the  air. 

The  deep-toned  organ  swells, 
And  vested  choir  in  richest,  fullest  chord, 
Sings  songs  of  praises  unto  the  risen  Lord. 

Each  ringing  anthem  tells 
That  from  the  dark  and  dismal  earthly  prison 
The  King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords  is  risen. 


272  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

The  nodding  plumes  on  heads  bowed  down  in  prayer; 
The  incense  of  sweet  blossoms  on  the  quiet  air, 

The  flashing  gems  and  gold; 
The  soft  and  silken  rustle,  the  content 
On  every  face  for  richest  blessing  sent 

On  these  within  the  fold  — 
All  these  amidst  the  Easter  lilies'  fragrant  bloom 
Drive  care  away  and  glorious  light  drives  out  the  gloom. 

But  what  of  those  for  whom  no  blooming  lilies  fair 
Shed  richest  fragrance  on  the  Easter  morning  air? 

God's  poor,  to  whom  content 
Means  but  a  crust,  a  rag  for  shivering  forms, 
A  hovel  as  a  home  from  all  life's  storms  — 

In  filth-strewn  tenement. 
Souls  seared  by  sin  because  God's  holy  word 
As  taught  in  yon  great  church  is  never  heard. 

The  children  of  the  sweat-shop,  starving,  sunken-eyed! 
Was  't  not  for  such  as  these  the  Gentle  Master  died? 

Have  they  no  place  and  part? 

Hopeless,  soul-starved,  with  blank  and  tear-stained  face, 
Have  they,  in  all  this  Easter  pomp  and  pride,  no  place? 

Can  there  be  contrite  heart 

Within  the  breast  of  one  who  'midst  the  lilies  kneels 
And  for  these  little  ones  no  touch  of  pity  feels? 

The  perfumed  flowers  upon  your  corsage  white 

Would  mean  to  starving  children  food  and  clothes  and  light. 

Each  diamond-studded  ring 
Upon  your  hand,  unmarked  by  toil  or  care, 
Would  give  a  thousand  children  God's  fresh  air, 

And  richest  roses  bring 

Back  to  their  sunken  cheeks.     You  think  God  ever  hears 
The  empty  prayers  above  the  children's  falling  tears? 

Loud  ring  the  Easter  bells;  the  solemn  anthems  rise 
Through  nave  and  church  —  the  while  the  child  slave  starves 

and  dies 

Within  their  glorious  sounds. 

Grim  Death  stalks  'round,  with  misery,  want,  and  woe 
To  mark  the  path  where  Death  walks  sentry-go. 

"The  Lord  is  risen  —  Love  abounds!" 
But  thousands  of  His  loved  ones  —  of  such  is  the  Kingdom 

they  — 
Starve,  and  within  the  shadow  of  His  church  to-day. 

WILL  M.  MAUPIN. 


TALES   IN    THE   TELLING  273 

THE  STRANGERS 

THEY  bought  her,  not  with  Irish  knife, 

But  with  their  Danish  gold: 
They  brought  her,  from  her  father's  hall, 

From  faces  kind  to  faces  cold 

In  her  new  lord's  hold. 
They  laid  strange  hands  on  her  joyous  life, 

And  bade  the  bird  in  her  breast  to  sing 

An  altered  song  with  a  folded  wing: 
And  the  Irish  maid  was  a  Danish  wife 

In  the  Strangers'  Forts  (and  she  heard,  she  heard 

All  night  the  cry  of  an  alien  bird 

That  sang  with  an  alien  call, 
But  would  not  sing  for  the  Strangers 
Who  dwelt  in  Donegal). 

They  took  her  over  running  water, 

And  loosed  our  kindly  chain: 
And  Danish  son  and  Danish  daughter 

She  bare  unto  her  Dane. 
She  sang  their  songs,  and  in  the  singing 
Her  childish  tunes  forgot : 
And  she  remembered  not 
The  kindlier  hearts  that  years  were  bringing 

Joy  and  pain 
That  were  none  of  hers,  though  deep  the  gladness 

And  keen  the  pain  — 
For  she  knew  no  grief  but  the  near-hand  sadness 

That  vexed  the  Dane: 
And  her  joy  was  the  joy  of  an  out  land  lord, 
And  gay  she  sat  at  the  outland  board 
In  the  highest  hall, 

(But  it  would  not  sing  for  a  Danish  call, 
The  bird  in  her  breast 
That  must  make  its  nest 
In  the  Strangers'  Forts,  with  the  Strangers 
That  dwelt  in  Donegal). 

She  bore  him  three  fair  daughters, 
And  one  tall  son,  whose  name 
The  Danish  minstrels  lifted  up, 
Even  as  one  lifts  a  golden  cup 
Filled  to  the  lips  with  fame. 
Then  over  the  shadowy  waters 
She  saw  Hy-Brasail  gleam  — 

And  she  laid  her  down  on  her  carven  bed, 


274  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Most  white,  and  fair,  and  sweet  to  see 
As  a  dream  remembered  piteously 
When  we  grow  too  old  to  dream. 
And  "Being  but  dead"  — 
She  said,  "I  bid  you  carry  me 
Like  a  maiden  back  to  my  own  country, 
Not  like  a  wife  long  wed. 
Take  off  my  girdle  and  jewels  all, 

My  shining  keys,  and  my  Irish  knife: 
Bid  my  maids  go  at  my  daughter's  call, 
And  my  heathen  thrall 
May  serve  my  son, 
For  my  toils  are  done, 
And  no  other  care 

I  have  save  this,  that  ye  bare  me  back 
On  the  homeward  track, 
With  a  straight  blue  gown  for  my  only  wear, 
With  folded  fingers  and  unbound  hair, 
As  I  was  ne'er  a  wife, 

For  I  cannot  sleep,  being  dead, 
In  the  Strangers'  Forts,  with  the  Strangers 

That  dwelt  in  Donegal." 
(And  dead  she  lay,  and  above  her  bed 
A  bird's  voice  cried,  till  the  light  overhead 

Grew  dark  to  the  evenfalL 
And  its  cry  was  the  cry  of  the  Strangers 
That  dwelt  in  Donegal.) 

Now,  her  alien  kin,  and  her  alien  mate, 

We  held  deep  in  hate: 

We  that  were  once  her  own, 

We  from  whose  griefs  her  heart  had  grown, 

And  whose  joys,  mavrone, 

Passed  by  her  door  —  and  she  had  not  known. 

We  that  by  cold  hearths  sat  alone 

When  her  threads  were  shorn 

By  envious  hands  of  a  Danish  Norn. 

And,  mavrone,  mavrone,  but  we  liked  it  ill 

That  they  did  her  dying  will: 

And  bore  her  homewards  as  she  had  said 
With  empty  hands  and  unveiled  head, 

Like  a  maiden  still. 

And  we  hated  more  when  they  raised  no  wail 

Above  her  cairn, 

Standing  dumb  and  stern, 

Drinking  "Godspeed"  in  her  burial-ale 

While  our  women  shrieked;  and  with  faces  pale 

Stood  and  cursed  our  mountain  ferae. 


TALES   IN    THE   TELLING  275 

And  now  we  are  sad,  for  our  hate  is  shed 

Abroad  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  and  dead 
As  Eivir,  as  Eivir.     And  home  to  his  hall 
Scathlessly  goes  the  Dane. 

And  the  cock  we  had  reared,  the  cock  that's  red, 
Crows  not  on  his  castle-wall. 
(But  the  bird,  the  bird  we  loved  best  of  all, 
It  sits  and  sings  in  his  lonely  hall, 

Mavrone!  for  her  bosom-bird 

And  its  singing  voice  we  have  not  heard 
O'er  her  grave  in  the  Holy  Isle: 

Nor  yet  in  the  dusk  o'er  her  maiden  bed, 

In  the  hold  where  she  was  born, 

It  sings,  by  night  or  morn. 

But  it  sings  most  sweet  and  clear 

For  her  Danish  kin  to  hear: 

And  its  song  is  sad, 

And  its  song  is  glad, 
Like  a  sigh  that  grows  to  a  smile.) 

For  she  loved  us  both,  but  death  turns  love  cold, 
And  they  bring  us  back  our  dead  to  hold, 
So  they  loved  her  best,  the  Strangers 
That  dwell  in  Donegal. 

NORA  HOPPER. 

R  ATT  LIN'  JOE'S  PRAYER 

JIST  pile  on  some  more  o'  them  pine  knots, 
An'  squat  yoursel's  down  on  this  skin, 
An',  Scotty,  let  up  on  yer  growlin'  — 
The  boys  are  all  tired  o'  yer  chin. 
Alleghany,  jist  pass  round  the  bottle, 
An'  give  the  lads  all  a  square  drink, 
An'  as  soon  as  yer  settled  I  '11  tell  ye 
A  yarn  as  '11  please  ye,  I  think. 

'T  was  the  year  eighteen  hundred  an'  sixty, 

A  day  in  the  bright  month  o'  June, 

When  the  Angel  o'  Death  from  the  Diggin's 

Snatched  "Monte  Bill"  —  known  as  M'Cune. 

Wai,  Bill  war  a  favorite  among  us, 

In  spite  o'  the  trade  that  he  had, 

Which  are  gamblin' ;  but  —  don't  you  forget  it  — 

He  often  made  weary  hearts  glad; 

An',  pards,  while  he  lay  in  that  coffin, 

Which  we  hewed  from  the  trunk  o'  a  tree, 

His  face  war  as  calm  as  an  angel's 

An'  white  as  an  angel's  could  be. 


276  .THEHUMBLER   POETS 

An'  thar  's  war  the  trouble  commenced,  pards; 

Thar  war  no  Gospel  sharps  in  the  camps, 

An'  Joe  said,  "We  can't  drop  him  this  way, 

Without  some  directions  or  stamps." 

Then  up  spoke  old  Sandy  M'Gregor: 

"Look'ee  yar  mates,  I'm  reg'lar  dead  stuck, 

I  can't  hold  no  hand  at  religion, 

An'  I  'm  feared  Bill 's  gone  in  out  o'  luck. 

If  I  knowed  a  darned  thing  about  prayin', 

I  'd  chip  in  and  say  him  a  mass, 

But  I  ain't  got  no  show  in  the  lay-out. 

I  can't  beat  the  game,  so  I  pass." 

Rattlin'  Joe  war  the  next  o'  the  speakers, 
An'  Joe  war  a  friend  o'  the  dead; 
The  salt  water  stood  in  his  peepers, 
An'  these  are  the  words  as  he  said : 
"Mates,  you  know  as  I  ain't  any  Christian, 
An'  I  '11  gamble  the  good  Lord  don't  know 
That  thar  lives  sich  a  rooster  as  I  am; 
But  thar  once  war  a  time  long  ago, 
When  I  war  a  kid,  I  remember, 
My  old  mother  sent  me  to  school, 
To  the  little  brown  church  every  Sunday  — 
Whar  they  said  I  war  dumb  as  a  mule, 
An'  I  reckon  I  've  nearly  forgotten 
Purty  much  all  thet  ever  I  knew. 
But  still,  if  ye  '11  drop  to  my  racket, 
I'll  show  ye  jist  what  I  kin  do. 

"Now  I'll  show  you  my  Bible,"  said  Joseph  — 
"Jist  hand  me  them  cards  off  that  rack; 
I'll  convince  ye  that  this  are  a  Bible"; 
An'  he  set  to  work  shufflin'  the  pack. 
He  spread  out  the  cards  on  the  table, 
An'  begun  kinder  pious-like:  "Pards, 
If  ye  '11  jist  cheese  yer  racket  an'  listen, 
I  '11  show  ye  the  Pra'ar  Book  in  cards. 

"The  'ace'  that  reminds  us  of  one  God, 

The  'deuce'  of  the  Father  an'  Son, 

The  'tray'  of  the  Father  an'  Son,  Holy  Ghost, 

For,  ye  see,  all  them  three  are  but  one. 

The  'four-spot'  is  Matthew,  Luke,  Mark,  an'  John, 

The  'five-spot'  the  Virgins  who  trimmed 

Thar  lamps  while  yet  it  was  light  o'  the  day, 

And  the  five  foolish  Virgins  who  sinned. 

The  'six-spot'  —  in  six  days  the  Lord  made  the  world, 


TALES    IN    THE    TELLING  277 

The  sea,  an'  the  stars  in  the  heaven; 

He  saw  it  war  good  w'at  He  made,  then  He  said, 

'I'll  jist  go  the  rest'  on  the  'seven.' 

The  '  eight-spot '  is  Noah,  his  wife  an'  three  sons, 

An'  Noah's  three  sons  has  their  wives; 

God  loved  the  hull  mob,  so  bid  'em  embark  — 

In  the  freshet  He  saved  all  their  lives. 

The  '  nine '  war  the  lepers  of  Biblical  fame, 

A  repulsive  and  hideous  squad  — 

The  'ten'  are  the  holy  Commandments,  which  came 

To  us  perishin'  creatures  from  God. 

The  'queen'  war  of  Sheba  in  old  Bible  times, 

The  'king'  represents  old  king  'Sol.' 

She  brought  in  a  hundred  young  folks,  gals  an'  boys, 

To  the  King  in  his  Government  hall. 

They  were  all  dressed  alike,  an'  she  axed  the  old  boy 

(She  'd  put  up  his  wisdom  as  bosh) 

Which  war  boys  an'  which  gals.     Old  Sol  said,  'By  Joe, 

How  dirty  their  hands!     Make  'em  wash!' 

And  then  he  showed  Sheba  the  boys  only  washed 

Their  hands  and  a  part  o'  their  wrists, 

While  the  gals  jist  went  up  to  their  elbows  in  suds. 

Sheba  weakened,  an'  shook  the  king's  fists. 

Now,  the  'knave,'  that 's  the  devil,  an',  God,  ef  ye  please, 

Jist  keep  his  hands  off  'n  poor  Bill. 

An'  now,  lads,  jist  drop  on  yer  knees  for  a  while 

Till  I  draw,  and  perhaps  I  kin  fill; 

An'  hevin'  no  Bible,  I  '11  pray  on  the  cards, 

Fur  I  've  showed  ye  they  're  all  on  the  squar', 

An'  I  think  God  '11  cotton  to  all  that  I  say, 

If  I  'm  only  sincere  in  the  pra'ar. 

Jist  give  him  a  corner,  good  Lord  —  not  on  stocks, 

Fur  I  ain't  such  a  durned  fool  as  that, 

To  ax  ye  fur  anything  worldly  fur  Bill, 

Kase  ye  'd  put  me  up  then  fur  a  flat. 

I  'm  lost  on  the  rules  o'  yer  game,  but  I  '11  ax 

Fur  a  seat  fur  him  back  o'  the  throne, 

And  I  '11  bet  my  whole  stock  that  the  boy  '11  behave 

If  yer  angels  jist  lets  him  alone. 

Thar  's  nothin'  'bout  him  unless  he  gets  riled, 

The  boys  '11  all  back  me  in  that; 

But  if  any  one  treads  on  his  corns,  then,  you  bet, 

He  '11  fight  at  the  drop  o'  the  hat. 

Jist  don't  let  yer  angels  run  over  him,  Lord, 

Nor  shut  off  all  't  once  on  his  drink; 

Break  him  in  kinder  gentle  an'  mild  in  the  start, 

An'  he  '11  give  ye  no  trouble,  I  think. 

An'  could  n't  ye  give  him  a  pack  of  old  cards, 


278  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

To  amuse  himself  once  in  a  while? 

But  I  warn  ye  right  hyar,  not  to  bet  on  his  game, 

Or  he  '11  get  right  away  with  yer  pile. 

An'  now,  Lord,  I  hope  thet  ye  've  tuck  it  all  in, 

An'  listened  to  all  that  I  've  said. 

I  know  thet  my  prayin'  is  jist  a  bit  thin, 

But  I  've  done  all  I  kin  fur  the  dead. 

An'  if  I  hain't  troubled  yer  Lordship  too  much  — 

So  I'll  cheese  it  by  axin',  again, 

Thet  ye  won't  let  the  'knave'  git  his  grip  on  poor  Bill. 

Thet 's  all,  Lord  —  yours  truly  —  Amen." 

Thet 's  "Rattlin'  Joe's  prayer,"  old  pardners, 
An'  —  what!  you  all  snorin'  ?     Say,  Lew, 
By  thunder!     I've  talked  every  rascal  to  sleep, 
So  I  guess  I  hed  best  turn  in  too. 

CAPTAIN  JOHN  WALLACE  CRAWFORD. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF   THE  WEST 

MORE  annoyed  than  for  many  a  week  before, 

We  looked  on  Bill  whar'  he  lay, 

He  had  got  down  sick  —  an'  the  livelong  day 
Had  groaned  an'  babbled  an'  maybe  swore. 
An'  did  n't  he  look  as  he  tumbled  thar', 
As  big  as  a  boss,  as  strong  as  a  b'ar, 
His  face  as  red  as  the  leaves  out  whar' 
The  sun  fell  last  on  the  canyon. 

Old  Bill  was  a  brick  —  wild,  full  of  his  pluck; 

But  somehow  deep  in  his  bosom  yit 

He  'd  a  feelin'  fer  man  that  wuz  down  —  hard  hit 
By  the  graceless  thing  that  we  call  bad  luck, 
An'  to  hear  him  there  with  his  eyes  shet  fast, 
Blabbin'  of  things  that  belonged  to  the  past, 
His  mother  an'  sisters  —  we  jest  had  to  ast: 
"Turned  baby,  Bill,  in  the  canyon?" 

We  had  no  fire;  it  was  fall  of  the  year; 

An'  the  moon  shined  fair  on  the  bowlders  — 
A  white  shawl  hangin'  over  the  shoulders 

Of  the  mountains  that  stretched  out  fer  an'  near. 

Fer  an  hour  then,  not  a  sound  from  Bill. 

No  snarl  of  wolf,  an'  no  streamlet's  spill; 

It  seemed  God's  step,  ef  you  'd  be  right  still, 
Mought  be  heard  even  down  in  the  canyon. 


TALES   IN   THE   TELLING  279 

"Yes,  mother,  I  'm  ready  to  say  my  prayer," 

He  murmured  then  in  a  voice  now  faint, 

A  look  on  his  face  no  bresh  could  paint, 
So  drawn,  yit  soft  in  the  midnight  air: 
"Now  —  I  —  lay  me  —  down  — '* then  we  all  drawed  near, 
An'  the  rest  of  the  words  fell  plain  on  our  ear  — 
The  sweet  old  prayer  God  loves  most  to  hear, 
Went  up  with  his  soul  from  the  canyon. 

Jest  plain  rough  scouts,  half-feelin'  our  way 
On  the  borders  of  hell  for  the  pioneers, 
We  had  little  time  fer  sighs  and  tears 
As  we  laid  Bill  under  the  grass  next  day. 
But  we  b'lieved  as  we  turned  and  left  him  alone, 
His  childish  plea  reachin'  up  to  the  throne, 
Fer  his  mother's  sake  might  somewhat  atone 
For  the  faults  of  the  dead  in  the  canyon. 

ANONYMOUS. 

BOOKS  OF   THE  BIBLE 
THE  OLD  TESTAMENT 

GENESIS  tells  of  creation;  of  Abraham's  call  and  migration; 

Of  Isaac  and  Jacob;  and  Joseph,  once  slave  and  then  proud 

Egypt's  ruler. 

Exodus  tells  us  how  Israel's  children  went  forth  from  their  bond 
age. 

Next  is  Leviticus,  book  of  the  service  by  priests  at  the  altar. 
Numbers  had   wonderful  blessing,   and   story    of    Balak    and 

Balaam. 

Then  Deuteronomy,  rich  in  the  words  of  the  great  leader  Moses. 
Joshua  tells  of  the  conquest  of  Canaan.  The  book  of  the  Judges 
Int'rests  with  stories  of  Israel's  chieftains  —  and  one  was  a 

woman. 
Ruth  and  her  faithfulness  charm  us;  then  Samuel's  words  and 

his  warnings 
Give  his  great  name  to  the  two  books  that  tell  of  Saul  and 

of  David. 
Next  are  two  books  of  the  Kings;  they  tell  us  of  Solomon's 

wisdom 

(Builder  was  he  of  the  temple);  they  tell  of  his  riches  and  folly; 
Tell  of  the  famed  queen  of  Sheba;  tell  also  of  strife  and  of  ruin. 
Two  books  of  Chronicles  sum  up  the  story  from  Adam  to  Cyrus. 
Ezra  the  scribe  tells  his  people's  return  to  the  home  of  their 

fathers. 

Distant,  far  distant,  was  Shushan  in  Persia,  but  thence  Nehemiah 
Brought  to  the  hearts  of  the  Jews  few  and  feeble  new  hope  and 

fresh  courage. 


280  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Next  is  the  book  of  Queen  Esther.     A  wonderful  poem  or  drama 
Bearing  Job's  name  tells  his  suff'ring,  his  patience  and  just 

vindication. 
Then  come  the  Psalms,  rich  in  praises;  and  Proverbs,  abounding 

in  wisdom. 

Mournful  and  almost  despairing — the  Preacher,  or  Ecclesiastes. 
Next  is  a  song  —  Song  of  Songs  —  a  drama  of  love  and  of 

wooing. 

Great  is  Isaiah  the  wonderful  prophet,  and  blessed  his  message. 
Sad  Jeremiah  hath  this  for  his  sorrow:  Jerusalem's  downfall. 
"How  doth  the  city  abide  as  a  widow!"  thus  cry  Lamentations. 
Whirlwind  and  fire  with  wonders  infolded  and  visions  on  vision; 
Wonders  are  these  that  the  prophet  Ezekiel  saw  and  recorded. 
Daniel  of  earth's  greatest  kingdoms  destruction  and  overthrow 

telleth. 
"Turn  thou  to  God,"  saith  Hosea,  "keep  mercy,  keep  mercy, 

and  judgment." 

Joel  hath  story  of  wasting  and  famine,  yet  trusts  in  God's  pity. 
"Ye  who  turn  judgment  to  wormwood"  have  warning  from 

Amos  the  herdman. 
"Pride  of  thine  heart  hath  deceived  thee,  O  Edom!"  said  just 

Obadiah. 
Nineveh  called  to  repentance  and  pardon  —  the  theme  this  of 

Jonah. 
"  Bethlehem-Ephratah,   from  thee  shall   come  forth  a  ruler," 

saith  Micah. 
Nahum  on  Nineveh  uttereth  judgment;  on  Nineveh,  ancient 

and  mighty. 

Habbakuk  tells  of  the  dreadful  Chaldeans;  of  God  come  to  judg 
ment. 
"Seek  ye  the  Lord  ere  the  day  of  his  anger,"  thus  warns  Zepha- 

niah. 

Haggai  pleads  for  the  temple,  and  tells  to  its  builders  his  message; 
Then  Zechariah  speaks  sevenfold,  vision,  and  promise  of  bless 
ing. 
Malachi  saith  that  the  hearts  of  the  fathers  shall  turn  to  the 

children. 
Thus  with  a  word  rich  in  promise  he  ends  the  Old  Testament 

record. 

THE   NEW  TESTAMENT 

FOUR  are  the  men  who  tell  of  the  life  of  pur  Saviour  and  Master: 
Matthew  (or  Levi)  the  first,  then  Mark  who  writes  like  a  sol 
dier; 
Luke   the  beloved   physician,    and   John   once  imprisoned   on 

Patmos. 

Luke  writes  again  (as  before  to  Theophilus)  telling  the  story, — 
Wonderful  story  of  parting  when  Jesus  returned  to  the  Father; 


TALES   IN    THE   TELLING  281 

Telling  the  story  of  Pentecost,  telling  of  Peter's  strange  vision; 
Telling  of  brave  Stephen's  death,  of  Paul  and  his  hardships  and 

journeys. 

This  is  the  book  of  the  Acts,  and  next  are  the  thirteen  epistles 
Written  by  Paul  the  Apostle.  The  first  is  the  one  to  the  Romans. 
Two  next  to  dwellers  in  Corinth  (but  one  is  for  all  the  Achaians). 
Then  comes  the  one  that  was  written  to  all  the  Galatian  churches. 
Ephesus  gives  its  proud  name  to  the  book  that  comes  next  in 

due  order. 
Find  then  the  letter  of  praise  that  Paul  wrote  to  saints  at  Phil- 

ippi. 
Then  comes  the  warning  he  sent  to  the  faithful  who  dwelt  at 

Colossse. 
Brethren  in  Thessalonica  had  two  books  he  wrote  for  their 

comfort. 

Timothy  two  for  his  guidance,  and  Titus  had  one  for  the  Cre 
tans. 

Who  but  admires  the  wonderful  letter  Paul  wrote  to  Philemon? 
Read  the  epistle  —  by  whom  was  it  written?  —  addressed  to 

the  Hebrews. 
James  to  the  twelve  tribes  scattered  abroad  sends  lesson  and 

greeting. 

Two  are  the  letters  of  Peter,  and  three  are  by  John  the  Apostle. 
Next  is  the  letter  by  Judas,  and  last  is  the  great  Revelation. 

JOHN  NELSON  DAVIDSON. 

THE  GARDEN-MAKER 

AN  old  slat  bonnet  hid  her  face; 

A  faded  print  that  had  no  grace 

Hid  sharp  shoulders  and  broad  flat  waist; 

Weeding  the  bed  where  the  beets  were  placed. 

The  Spring  breeze  gently  stirred  the  reeds 
As  she  pulled  her  garden  free  of  weeds, 
Then  loosened  up  the  good,  rich  sod 
Along  the  rows  of  pease  in  pod. 

And  where  her  brown  hands  touched  the  earth 
The  thrifty,  green  shoots  soon  had  birth; 
She  understood  the  plants  like  friends  — 
On  this  a  garden  much  depends. 

The  weatherbeaten  paling  fence, 

The  garden's  trusty  old  defence, 

Was  softened  by  a  row  of  flowers,  — 

They  helped  her  through  hard  morning  hours. 


282  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

A  climbing  white  rose  waved  its  arm 
In  bride-like  welcome  to  the  farm; 
She  loved  to  see  it  all  a-blow 
It  minded  her  of  the  long  ago. 

She  hoed  the  rows  of  shooting  corn 
Till  she  heard  a  neighbor's  dinner-horn; 
With  cruel  longing  she  saw  the  face 
Of  the  dead  and  gone  in  empty  space. 

And  the  time  when  her  table  had  been  well  spread 
With  her  own  good  making  of  pies  and  bread, 
And  her  loved  ones  gathered  about  the  board 
Touched  not  the  food  till  they  thanked  the  Lord. 

Tears  filled  a  furrow  on  her  cheek, 
The  rising  sobs  made  her  bend  and  weep, 
But  the  spring  breeze  helped  to  dry  her  eyes, 
And  she  cut  rhubarb  for  a  batch  of  pies. 

She  was  very  weary  and  sat  to  rest 
Beside  the  flowers  she  loved  the  best; 
The  bitter  memories  would  not  depart, 
So  she  prayed  for  balm  for  a  stricken  heart. 

There  was  crying  need  that  the  work  be  done 

Before  the  set  of  the  present  sun. 

Old  and  lonely,  her  thoughts  were  drear, 

Her  strength  had  passed  with  the  passing  year. 

For  now  the  vigor  left  her  stroke 

And  the  poor  old  bended  back  seemed  broke; 

She  paused  and  rested  on  her  hoe 

And  saw  her  garden  wreathed  aglow. 

She  hung  upon  the  fence  her  hoe, 
And  took  within  the  house  her  woe, 
And  soon  there  was  a  row  of  pies 
To  gladden  any  urchin's  eyes. 

And  this  they  did;  for  down  the  lane 
A  truant  playing  fisher  came, 
Who  traded  off  a  two-pound  fish 
For  one  tremendous  toothsome  dish. 

And  from  the  gossip  of  the  lad 

She  learned  that  old  Mis'  Beggs  was  bad, 

And  after  Master  Tommy's  lunch 

Of  her  white  roses  made  a  bunch ; 


TALES    IN    THE    TELLING  283 

And  sent  them  down  to  Widow  Beggs 
Along  with  three  brand-new-laid  eggs; 
And  then  put  on  fresh  calico 
And  hunted  up  more  seeds  to  sow. 

Tears  oft  dimmed  her  fading  sight: 
Her  garden  healed  her  bitter  plight, 
Inhaled  with  sighs  its  sweet  perfume, 
Renewed  her  faith  in  God  each  June. 

For  though  her  heart  with  pain  was  racked 
She  never  had  for  mercies  lacked; 
Her  losses  paid  with  grief  and  pain 
In  other  ways  came  back  again. 


The  flowers  looked  up  and  asked  for  rain 
And  bowed  in  thanks  whene'er  it  came  — 
In  all  her  garden  the  grateful  sod 
Gave  gladly  back  the  smile  of  God. 

L.  D.  MORSBACH. 

MY  LITTLE  WIFE 

MY  little  wife  's  a  world  too  sweet 

For  such  a  man  as  I  am: 
But  she  's  a  Trojan  —  hard  to  beat 

As  Hector,  son  of  Priam! 

A  winsome,  wilful  morsel  she: 

Brought  up  to  grace  a  palace, 
She  ran  away  to  marry  me,  — 

Half  love,  half  girlish  malice. 

She  never  has  repented,  though: 

We  built  a  cot  in  Jersey: 
She  wore  delaine  and  calico, 

And  I  wore  tweed  and  kersey. 

So  great  our  love  it  bridged  across 

Whatever  might  divide  us. 
However  went  the  gain  or  loss 

We  felt  as  rich  as  Midas. 

I  helped  her  with  the  brush  and  broom, 

Her  morning  labors  aiding: 
She  followed  to  the  counting-room,  — 

Made  out  my  bills  of  lading. 


284  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

And  once,  when  sick  of  chills  I  lay, 
She  balanced  up  the  pages; 

Did  all  my  work  from  day  to  day, 
And  brought  home  all  my  wages. 

Then  I  was  but  a  shipping  clerk,  — 
Of  firm  of  Graves  &  Gartner: 

Till,  after  long  and  weary  work, 
They  took  me  in  as  partner. 

So  year  on  year  went  gayly  round 
While  we  grew  rich  and  richer, 

Until,  in  every  spring  we  found, 
We  dipped  a  golden  pitcher. 

When  Gartner  left,  grown  old  and  lame, 
I  bought  him  out  completely; 

Made  wife  a  partner;  changed  the  name 
To  Wheatly,  Graves  &  Wheatly. 

A  silent  partner?     Not  at  all! 

With  genius  more  than  Sapphic, 
She  improvised  —  that  lady  small  — 

The  poetry  of  traffic. 

And,  flitting  through  our  offices, 
With  work  and  smile  admonished: 

"We  '11  work  no  metamorphoses 
To  make  a  lie  look  honest." 

Meantime  the  business  grew  and  grew 
With  not  a  cloud  to  daunten: 

Till  wife,  who  wanted  tea  like  dew, 
Sent  me  adrift  for  Canton. 

No  sooner  was  I  well  at  sea, 
Than  with  a  whirl  insanic, 

Down  came  that  flood  of  seventy-three, 
And  shook  the  world  with  panic. 

Then  many  a  house  as  strong  as  life 
Was  caught  and  torn  asunder: 

Till  Graves  came  trembling  to  my  wife 
And  said:  "We  're  going  under!" 

Wife  saw  the  gulf  but  kept  her  poise; 

Disposed  of  plate  and  raiment, 
Sold  all  her  jewels  (but  the  boy's!), 

And  met  the  heaviest  payment. 


TALES   IN    THE   TELLING  285 

So  Graves  and  she,  with  work  and  wit, 

With  care  and  self-denial, 
Upheld  the  firm,  —  established  it 

The  surer  for  the  trial. 

Through  all  the  strife  they  paid  the  hands 
Full  price,  —  none  saw  them  falter, 

And  now  the  house,  rock-founded,  stands 
As  steady  as  Gibraltar. 

But  wife  keeps  with  us,  guards  us  through 

Like  Miriam  watching  Moses; 
She  drinks  her  tea  as  pure  as  dew 

And  sells  it  —  fresh  as  roses! 

Yes,  she  's  a  Trojan!     Hard  to  beat 

As  all  the  sons  of  Priam: 
But  bless  you!  she  's  a  world  too  sweet 

For  such  a  man  as  I  am! 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  ASS  AVER'S  STORY 

"GENTLEMEN,"  said  the  assay er,  "you  may  talk  all  you  want 

to, 
I  knew  a  case  where  four  aces  were  beaten  by  three  of  a  kind, 

sir!" 

"Three  of  a  kind  and  a  gun!"  retorted  a  listening  comrade. 
"Not  a  bit  of  it,  sir;  the  winner  played  perfectly  fairly." 

Nudging  up  nearer  the  fire  they  heard  this  remarkable  story: 
"  'Way  out  in  Arizona,  that  land  of  coyotes,  jack-rabbits, 
Greasers,  Apaches,  and  such,  with  a  sprinkling  of  mining  fron 
tiersmen 

Lending  tone  to  the  whole  and  keeping  them  all  from  damnation, 
Lies  the  scene  of  my  tale  'mid  men  of  quick  minds  and  quick 

action; 

Chivalrous  when  they  'd  occasion,  eager  with  knife  and  revolver, 
Gen'rally  quiet  when  sober,  outrageously  brash  when  in  liquor, 
Brave  as  but  few  men  are  brave,  and  strong  with  the  vigor  of 

morning  — 

I  could  say  more  for  the  men,  but  hardly  so  much  for  the  coun 
try. 

"There  in  Red  Gulch,  where  it  happened,  progress  had  planted 

her  footsteps; 
Churches  and  schools  were  a-building,  horse  thieves  and  thugs 

had  been  fired; 


286  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Everything  pointed  a  future,  not  so  productive  of  story, 

Not  filled  with  animal  spirits,  but  doubtless  a  blamed  sight  more 
decent. 

Yet,  as  might  be  expected,  it  was  a  time  of  transition; 

Men  who  for  years  had  been  drunk  continued  to  gaze  on  the 
serpent; 

Those  with  the  natures  of  snakes  never  grew  harmless  and  dove- 
like; 

All  who  had  been  walking  arsenals  kept  their  accoutrements 
handy; 

None  who  had  gambled  a  lifetime  turned  out  Methodist  preachers. 

"So  it  happened  one  day  that  the  newly  elected  officials 
Held  their  first  annual  meeting  in  the  big  room  in  the  feed  store, 
Used  for  a  court-house  pro  tern.,  and  settled  affairs  of  the  county; 
Argued  it  was  n't  respectable,  hanging  a  man  without  trial, 
Fixed  on  the  site  of  the  jail  and  hired  a  tenderfoot  teacher. 
Satisfied,  then,  with  their  labor  and  feeling  entitled  to  pleasure, 
Coroner,  sheriff,  and  judge  adjourned,  with  the  clerk  of  the 

county, 

Over  to  Kelley's  back  room  for  a  period  of  solid  enjoyment; 
Entered  and  called  for  some  cards,  procured  irrigating  mate 
rials, 

Shuffled  and  cut  and  straightway  were  deep  in  the  science  of 
poker. 

"There  they  dallied  some  hours,  assisted  by  liquid  refreshments; 

Nothing  particular  happened  till  somebody  started  a  jack-pot; 

All  of  them  passed  three  times,  till  several  hundreds  of  money 

Piled  itself  up  in  the  middle  and  lay  there,  embodied  tempta 
tion! 

Twenty-five  dollars  it  cost  when  the  clerk  had  looked  over  his 
fistful; 

Twenty-five  more  was  the  straddle  when  the  matter  got  round 
to  the  sheriff; 

All  of  them  looked  kind  of  nervous,  sort  o'  conscious  of  something 
impending; 

But  when  the  judge,  too,  came  in  and  raised  that  there  bet  a 
full  fifty, 

All  set  their  molars  together  and  humped  themselves  ready  for 
combat. 

"Meanwhile,  the  coroner,  pale,  but  brimful  of  cool  self-pos 
session, 

Saw  all  the  bets  of  the  others,  until,  on  the  table  before  them, 
Lay  near  the  fortune  of  each,  then  broke  the  ominous  silence, 
Noting  the  fact  that  the  crowd  had  just  about  sized  his  whole 
pile  up, 


TALES    IN    THE    TELLING  287 

So  it  behooved  him  to  call.  Straightway  the  clerk,  all  tri 
umphant, 

Showed  down  four  kings  and  an  ace  as  a  very  good  thing  to 
fall  back  on. 

"'Not  yet,  ole  hoss,'  said  the  sheriff,  and  gave  a  king  and  four 

aces 
Forth  to  their  wondering  eyes,  while  the  judge  amid  general 

confusion 
Made  a  quick  motion  behind,  saying:  '/  hold  a  straight  flush, 

ace  high,  sir!' 

"After  the  smoke  cleared  away,  the  coroner,  slowly  emerging 
Out  from  under  the  table,  pocketed  all  of  the  money, 
Saying,  in  tones  of  unprejudiced  candor :/  7  hold  three  INQUESTS'  ! ' ' 

ANONYMOUS. 
ABIGAIL  BECKER 

Wreck   of  the   Schooner  Conductor,  off  Long    Point   Island, 
Canada  West,  near  Buffalo,  November,  1853. 

THE  wind,  the  wind  where  Erie  plunged 
Sou' west,  blew,  blew  from  land  to  land. 

The  wandering  schooner  dipped  and  lunged,  — 
Long  Point  was  close  at  hand. 

Long  Point  —  a  swampy  island-slant, 

Where,  busy  in  their  grassy  homes, 
Woodcock  and  snipe  the  hollows  haunt 

And  muskrats  build  their  domes. 

Where  gulls  and  eagles  rest  at  need; 

Where,  either  side,  by  lake  or  sound, 
Kingfishers,  cranes,  and  divers  feed, 

And  mallard  ducks  abound. 

The  lowering  night  shut  out  the  sight: 
Careened  the  vessel,  pitched  and  veered; 

Raved,  raved  the  wind  with  main  and  might,  — 
The  sunken  reef  she  neared. 

She  pounded  over,  lurched  and  sank: 

Between  two  sand-bars  settling  fast 
Her  leaky  hull  the  waters  drank, 

And  she  had  sailed  her  last. 

Into  her  rigging,  quick  as  thought, 

Captain  and  mate  and  sailors  sprung, 
Clambered  for  life,  some  vantage  caught, 

And  there  all  night  they  swung. 


THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

And  it  was  cold,  oh,  it  was  cold! 

The  pinching  cold  was  like  a  vise; 
Spoondrif t  flew  freezing,  —  fold  on  fold 

It  coated  them  with  ice. 

Now  when  the  dawn  began  to  break, 

Light  up  the  sand-path  drenched  and  brown, 

To  fill  her  bucket  from  the  lake 
Came  Mother  Becker  down. 

From  where  her  cabin  crowned  the  bank 
Came  Abigail  Becker,  tall  and  strong. 

She  dipped  and  lo!  a  broken  plank 
Rode  rocking  close  along. 

She  poised  her  glass  with  anxious  ken: 
The  schooner's  top  she  spied  from  far; 

And  there  she  counted  seven  men 
That  clung  to  mast  and  spar. 

And  oh,  the  gale!  the  rout  and  roar! 

The  blinding  drift,  the  mounting  wave! 
A  good  half-mile  from  wreck  to  shore 

With  seven  men  to  save! 

Sped  Mother  Becker:  "Children!  wake! 

"A  ship  'a  gone  down!  they  're  needing  me! 
Your  father  's  off  on  shore!  the  lake 

Is  just  a  raging  sea! 

"Get  wood,  cook  fish,  make  ready  all!" 
She  snatched  her  stores,  she  fled  with  haste, 

In  cotton  gown  and  tattered  shawl, 
Barefoot  across  the  waste. 

Through  sinking  sands,  through  quaggy  lands, 

And  nearer,  nearer,  full  in  view, 
Went  shouting  through  her  hollowed  hands: 

"Courage!  we  '11  get  you  through!" 

Ran  to  and  fro,  made  cheery  signs, 
Her  bonfire  lighted,  steeped  her  tea, 

Brought  driftwood,  watched  Canadian  lines 
Her  husband's  boat  to  see. 

Cold,  cold  it  was,  oh,  it  was  cold! 

The  bitter  cold  made  watching  vain: 
With  ice  the  channel  laboring  rolled,  — 

No  skiff  could  stand  the  strain. 


TALES    IN    THE    TELLING  289 

On  all  that  isle,  from  outer  swell 

To  strait,  between  the  landings  shut, 
Was  never  place  where  man  might  dwell 

Save  trapper  Becker's  hut. 

And  it  was  twelve  and  one  and  two 

And  it  was  three  o'clock  and  more: 
She  called:  "Come  on!  there  's  nought  to  do 

But  leap!  and  swim  ashore!" 

Blew,  blew  the  gale;  they  did  not  hear. 

She  waded  in  the  shallow  sea, 
She  waved  her  hands,  made  signals  clear: 

"Swim,  swim!  and  trust  to  me!" 

"My  men,"  the  captain  cried,  "I'll  try: 
"The  woman's  judgment  may  be  right; 

For  swim  or  sink,  seven  men  must  die 
If  here  we  swing  to-night." 

Far  out  he  marked  the  gathering  surge; 

Across  the  bar  he  watched  it  pour; 
Let  go  and  on  its  topmost  verge 

Came  riding  in  to  shore. 

It  struck  the  breaker's  foamy  track: 

Majestic  wave  on  wave  up-hurled, 
Went  grandly  toppling,  tumbling  back 

As  loath  to  flood  the  world ! 

There  blindly  whirling,  shorn  of  strength, 

The  captain  drifted,  sure  to  drown; 
Dragged  seaward  half  a  cable's  length, 

Like  sinking  lead  went  down. 

Ah,  well  for  him  that  on  the  strand 

Had  Mother  Becker  waited  long! 
And  well  for  him  her  grasping  hand 

And  grappling  arm  were  strong! 

And  well  for  him  that  wind  and  sun 

And  daily  toil  for  scanty  gains 
Had  made  such  daring  blood  to  run 

Within  such  generous  veins. 

For  what  to  do  but  plunge  and  swim? 

Out  on  the  sinking  billow  cast, 
She  toiled,  she  dived,  she  groped  for  him, 

She  found  and  clutched  him  fast. 


290  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

She  climbed  the  reef,  she  brought  him  up, 

She  laid  him,  gasping,  on  the  sands, 
Built  high  the  fire  and  filled  the  cup,  — 

Stood  up  and  waved  her  hands! 

Oh,  life  is  dear!     The  mate  leaped  in: 
"I  know,"  the  captain  said,  "right  well, 

"Not  twice  can  any  woman  win 
A  soul  from  yonder  hell!" 

"I'll  start  and  meet  him  in  the  wave." 

"Keep  back ! "  she  bade.     "What  strength  have  you? " 
"And  I  shall  have  you  both  to  save,  — 

Must  work  to  pull  you  through!" 

But  out  he  went.     Up  shallow  sweeps 

Raced  the  long  white- caps,  comb  on  comb: 

The  wind,  the  wind  that  lashed  the  deeps, 
Far,  far  it  blew  the  foam. 

The  frozen  foam  went  scudding  by,  — 

Before  the  wind,  a  seething  throng, 
The  waves,  the  waves  came  towering  high! 

They  flung  the  mate  along. 

The  waves  came  towering  high  and  white, 

They  burst  in  clouds  of  flying  spray; 
There  mate  and  captain  sank  from  sight 

And  clinching,  rolled  away. 

O,  Mother  Becker,  seas  are  dread, 

Their  treacherous  paths  are  deep  and  blind! 

But  widows  twain  shall  mourn  their  dead 
If  thou  art  slow  to  find! 

She  sought  them  near,  she  sought  them  far; 

Three  fathoms  down  she  gripped  them  tight: 
With  both  together,  up  the  bar 

She  staggered  into  sight. 

Beside  the  fire  her  burdens  fell: 

She  paused  the  cheering  draught  to  pour, 

Then  waved  her  hands:  "All's  well!  all's  well! 
"Come  on!     Swim  !  swim  ashore!" 

Sure  life  is  dear  and  men  are  brave: 

They  came,  they  dropped  from  mast  and  spar; 

And  who  but  she  could  breast  the  wave 
And  dive  beyond  the  bar! 


TALES   IN   THE   TELLING  291 

Dark  grew  the  sky  from  East  to  West 

And  darker,  darker  grew  the  world: 
Each  man  from  off  the  breaker's  crest 

To  gloomier  deeps  was  hurled. 

And  still  the  gale  went  shrieking  on; 

And  still  the  wrecking  fury  grew, 
And  still  the  woman,  worn  and  wan 

Those  gates  of  death  went  through!  — 

As  Christ  were  walking  on  the  waves 

And  heavenly  radiance  shone  about, 
All  fearless  trod  that  gulf  of  graves 

And  bore  the  sailors  out! 

Down  came  the  night,  but  far  and  bright, 

Despite  the  wind  and  flying  foam, 
The  bonfire  flamed  to  give  them  light 

To  trapper  Becker's  home! 

Oh,  safety  after  wreck  is  sweet, 

And  sweet  is  rest  in  hut  or  hall! 
One  story  Life  and  Death  repeat:  — 

God's  mercy  over  all! 


Next  day  men  heard,  put  out  from  shore, 

Crossed  channel-ice,  burst  in  to  find 
Seven  gallant  fellows  sick  and  sore, 

A  tender  nurse  and  kind; 

Shook  hands,  wept,  laughed,  were  crazy  glad! 

Cried:  "Never  yet  on  land  or  sea 
"Poor,  dying,  drowning  sailors  had 

A  better  friend  than  she! 

"Billows  may  tumble,  winds  may  roar, 

Strong  hands  the  wrecked  from  death  may  snatch, 
But  never,  never,  nevermore 

This  deed  shall  mortal  match!" 

Dear  Mother  Becker  dropped  her  head; 

She  blushed  as  girls  when  lovers  woo: 
"I  have  not  done  a  thing,"  she  said, 

"More  than  I  ought  to  do!" 

AMANDA  T.  JONES. 


292  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  CAB 

SAFE  and  snug  in  the  sleeping-car 

Are  father  and  mother  and  sleeping  child; 
The  night  outside  shows  never  a  star, 

For  the  storm  is  thick  and  the  wind  is  wild. 
The  frenzied  train  in  its  all-night  race 

Holds  many  a  soul  in  its  fragile  walls, 
While  in  his  cab,  with  a  smoke-stained  face, 

Is  the  man  in  the  greasy  overalls. 

Through  the  firebox  door  the  heat  glows  white, 

The  steam  is  hissing  at  all  the  cocks; 
The  pistons  dance  and  the  drivewheels  smite 

The  trembling  rails  till  the  whole  earth  rocks. 
But  never  a  searching  eye  could  trace — 

Though  the  night  is  black  and  the  speed  appals  — 
A  line  of  fear  in  the  smoke-stained  face 

Of  the  man  in  the  greasy  overalls. 

No  halting,  wavering  coward  he, 

As  he  lashes  his  engines  around  the  curve, 
But  a  peace-encompassed  Grant  or  Lee, 

With  a  heart  of  oak  and  an  iron  nerve. 
And  so  I  ask  that  you  make  a  place 

In  the  Temple  of  Heroes'  sacred  halls 
Where  I  may  hang  the  smoke-stained  face 

Of  the  man  in  the  greasy  overalls. 

NIXON  WATERMAN. 

A  BALLAD  OF  AN  ARTIST'S  WIFE 

"  SWEET  wife,  this  heavy-hearted  age 
Is  naught  to  us;  we  two  shall  look 
To  Art,  and  fill  a  perfect  page 

In  Life's  ill-written  doomsday  book." 

He  wrought  in  color;  blood  and  brain 
Gave  fire  and  might;  and  beauty  grew 

And  flowered  with  every  magic  stain 
His  passion  on  the  canvas  threw. 

They  shunned  the  world  and  worldly  ways: 

He  labored  with  a  constant  will; 
But  few  would  look,  and  none  would  praise, 

Because  of  something  lacking  still. 


TALES   IN    THE   TELLING  293 

After  a  time  her  days  with  sighs 

And  tears  o'erflowed;  for  blighting  need 

Bedimmed  the  lustre  of  her  eyes, 
And  there  were  little  mouths  to  feed. 

"My  bride  shall  ne'er  be  commonplace," 
He  thought  and  glanced;  and  glanced  again: 

At  length  he  looked  her  in  the  face; 
And,  lo,  a  woman  old  and  plain! 

About  this  time  the  world's  heart  failed  — 

The  lusty  heart  no  fear  could  rend; 
In  every  land  wild  voices  wailed, 

And  prophets  prophesied  the  end. 

"To-morrow  or  to-day,"  he  thought, 

"May  be  Eternity;  and  I 
Have  neither  felt  or  fashioned  aught 

That  makes  me  unconcerned  to  die. 

"With  care  and  counting  of  the  cost 

My  life  a  sterile  waste  has  grown, 
Wherein  my  better  dreams  are  lost 

Like  chaff  in  the  Sahara  sown. 

"I  must  escape  this  living  tomb! 

My  life  shall  yet  be  rich  and  free, 
And  on  the  very  stroke  of  Doom 

My  soul  at  last  begin  to  be. 

"Wife,  children,  duty,  household  fires 

For  victims  of  the  good  and  true! 
For  me  my  infinite  desires, 

Freedom  and  things  untried  and  new! 

"I  would  encounter  all  the  press 

Of  thought  and  feeling  life  can  show, 
The  sweet  embrace,  the  aching  stress 

Of  every  earthly  joy  and  woe; 

"And  from  the  world's  impending  wreck 

And  out  of  pain  and  pleasure  weave 
Beauty  undreamt  of,  to  bedeck 

The  Festival  of  Doomsday  Eve." 

He  fled,  and  joined  a  motley  throng 

That  held  carousal  day  and  night; 
With  love  and  wit,  with  dance  and  song, 

They  snatched  a  last  intense  delight. 


294  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Passion  to  mould  an  age's  art, 
Enough  to  keep  a  century  sweet, 

Was  in  an  hour  consumed;  each  heart 
Lavished  a  life  in  every  beat. 

Amazing  beauty  filled  the  looks 
Of  sleepless  women;  music  bore 

New  wonder  on  its  wings;  and  books 

Throbbed  with  a  thought  unknown  before. 

The  sun  began  to  smoke  and  flare 
Like  a  spent  lamp  about  to  die; 

The  dusky  moon  tarnished  the  air; 
The  planets  withered  in  the  sky. 

Earth  reeled  and  lurched  upon  her  road; 

Tigers  were  cowed,  and  wolves  grew  tame; 
Seas  shrank,  and  rivers  backward  flowed, 

And  mountain-ranges  burst  in  flame. 

The  artist's  wife,  a  soul  devout, 
To  all  these  things  gave  little  heed; 

For  though  the  sun  was  going  out, 
There  still  were  little  mouths  to  feed. 

And  there  were  also  shrouds  to  stitch, 
And  chores  to  do;  with  all  her  might, 

To  feed  her  babes,  she  served  the  rich, 
And  kept  her  useless  tears  till  night. 

But  by  and  by  her  sight  grew  dim ; 

Her  strength  gave  way;  in  desperate  mood 
She  laid  her  down  to  die.     "Tell  him," 

She  sighed,  "I  fed  them  while  I  could." 

The  children  met  a  wretched  fate; 

Self-love  was  all  the  vogue  and  vaunt, 
And  charity  gone  out  of  date; 

Wherefore  they  pined  and  died  of  want. 

Aghast  he  heard  the  story:  "Dead! 

All  dead  in  hunger  and  despair! 
I  courted  misery,"  he  said; 

"But  here  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

Then,  as  he  wrought,  the  stress  of  woe 
Appeared  in  many  a  magic  stain; 

And  all  adored  his  work,  for,  lo, 

Tears  mingled  now  with  blood  and  brain! 


TALES    IN    THE    TELLING  295 

"Look,  look!"  they  cried,  "this  man  can  weave 

Beauty  from  anguish  that  appals"; 
And  at  the  Feast  of  Doomsday  Eve 

They  hung  his  pictures  in  their  halls, 

And  gazed;  and  came  again  between 

The  faltering  dances  eagerly; 
They  said,  "The  loveliest  we  have  seen, 

The  last,  of  man's  work,  we  shall  see!" 

Then  there  was  neither  death  nor  birth; 

Time  ceased;  and  through  the  ether  fell 
The  smoky  sun,  the  leprous  earth,  — 

A  cinder  and  an  icicle. 

No  wrathful  vials  were  unsealed; 

Silent,  the  first  things  passed  away: 
No  terror  reigned;  no  trumpet  pealed 

The  dawn  of  Everlasting  Day. 

The  bitter  draught  of  sorrow's  cup 
Passed  with  the  seasons  and  the  years: 

And  Wisdom  dried  for  ever  up 

The  deep,  old  fountainhead  of  tears. 

Out  of  the  grave  and  ocean's  bed 

The  artist  saw  the  people  rise; 
And  all  the  living  and  the  dead 

Were  borne  aloft  to  Paradise. 

He  came  where  on  a  silver  throne 

A  spirit  sat  forever  young; 
Before  her  Seraphs  worshipped  prone, 

And  Cherubs  silver  censers  swung. 

He  asked,  "Who  may  this  martyr  be? 

What  votaress  of  saintly  rule?" 
A  Cherub  said,  "No  martyr;  she 

Had  one  gift:  she  was  beautiful." 

Then  came  he  to  another  bower 

Where  one  sat  on  a  golden  seat, 
Adored  by  many  a  heavenly  Power 

With  golden  censers  smoking  sweet. 

"This  was  some  gallant  wench  who  led 
Faint-hearted  folk  and  set  them  free?  " 

"Oh,  no,  a  simple  maid!"  they  said, 
"Who  spent  her  life  in  charity." 


296  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

At  last  he  reached  a  mansion  blest 
Where,  on  a  diamond  throne,  endued 

With  nameless  beauty,  one  possessed 
Ineffable  beatitude. 

The  praises  of  this  matchless  soul 
The  sons  of  God  proclaimed  aloud; 

From  diamond  censers  odors  stole; 
And  Hierarchs  before  her  bowed. 

"  Who  was  she? ' '     God  Himself  replied : 

"In  misery  her  lot  was  cast; 
She  lived  a  woman's  life,  and  died 

Working  My  work  until  the  last." 

It  was  his  wife.     He  said,  "I  pray 

Thee,  Lord,  despatch  me  now  to  Hell." 

But  God  said,  "No;  here  shall  you  stay, 
And  in  her  peace  forever  dwell." 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

A  LESSON  OF  MERCY 

BENEATH  a  palm-tree  by  a  clear  cool  spring 
God's  Prophet,  Mahomet,  lay  slumbering, 
Till,  roused  by  chance,  he  saw  before  him  stand 
A  foeman,  Durther,  scimitar  in  hand. 
The  chieftain  bade  the  startled  sleeper  rise; 
And  with  a  flame  of  triumph  in  his  eyes, 
"Who  now  can«save  thee,  Mahomet?"  he  cried. 
"God,"  said  the  Prophet,  "God,  my  friend  and  guide." 
Awe-struck,  the  Arab  dropped  his  naked  sword, 
Which,  grasped  by  Mahomet,  defied  its  lord: 
And,  "Who  can  save  thee  now  thy  blade  is  won?" 
Exclaimed  the  Prophet.     Durther  answered,  "None!" 
Then  spake  the  victor:  "Though  thy  hands  are  red 
With  guiltless  blood  unmercifully  shed, 
I  spare  thy  life,  I  give  thee  back  thy  steel: 
Henceforth,  compassion  for  the  helpless  feel." 
And  thus  the  twain,  unyielding  foes  of  yore, 
Clasped  hands  in  token  that  their  feud  was  o'er. 

GEORGE  MURRAY. 


Part 
THE    POETRY   OF   EVERY   DAY 


KNOWLEDGE 

I  HAVE  known  sorrow  —  therefore  I 
May  laugh  with  you,  0  friend,  more  merrily 
Than  those  who  never  sorrowed  upon  earth 
And  know  not  laughter's  worth. 

I  have  known  laughter  —  therefore  I 
May  sorrow  with  you  far  more  tenderly 
Than  those  who  never  knew  how  sad  a  thing 
Seems  merriment  to  one  heart  suffering. 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON. 


Part 
THE  POETRY  OF  EVERY  DAY 


LIFE'S  COMMON  THINGS 

THE  things  of  every  day  are  all  so  sweet, 

The  morning  meadows  wet  with  dew; 
The  dance  of  daisies  in  the  moon,  the  blue 

Of  far-off  hills  where  twilight  shadows  lie, 
The  night  with  all  its  tender  mystery  of  sound 

And  silence,  and  God's  starry  sky! 
Oh!  life  —  the  whole  life  —  is  far  too  fleet, 

The  things  of  every  day  are  all  so  sweet. 

The  common  things  of  life  are  all  so  dear, 

The  waking  in  the  warm  half-gloom 
To  find  again  the  old  familiar  room, 

The  scents  and  sights  and  sounds  that  never  tire, 
The  homely  work,  the  plans,  the  lilt  of  baby's  laugh, 

The  crackle  of  the  open  fire; 
The  waiting,  then  the  footsteps  coming  near, 

The  opening  door,  the  hand  clasp  and  the  kiss  — 
Is  Heaven  not,  after  all,  the  Now  and  Here, 

The  common  things  of  life  are  all  so  dear? 

ANONYMOUS. 

WAITING 

I  COULD  say  nice  things  about  him; 

I  could  praise  him  if  I  would; 
I  could  tell  about  his  kindness, 

For  he  's  always  doing  good. 
I  could  boost  him  as  he  journeys 

O'er  the  road  of  life  to-day; 
But  I  let  him  pass  in  silence 

And  I  Ve  not  a  word  to  say : 
For  I  'm  one  of  those  now  waiting  — 

Ere  a  word  of  praise  is  said, 
Or  a  word  of  comfort  uttered  — 

Till  the  friend  we  love  lies  dead. 
299 


300  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

I  could  speak  of  yonder  brother 

As  a  man  it's  good  to  know; 
And  perhaps  he  'd  like  to  hear  it, 

As  he  journeys  here  below. 
I  could  tell  the  world  about  him 

And  his  virtues  all  recall, 
But  at  present  he  is  living, 

And  it  would  n't  do  at  all: 
So  I  'm  waiting,  yes,  I  'm  waiting, 

Till  the  spark  of  life  is  fled; 
Ere  I  raise  my  voice  to  praise  him 

I  must  know  that  he  is  dead. 

I  appreciate  the  kindness 

That  he's  often  shown  to  me, 
And  it  will  not  be  forgotten 

When  I  speak  his  eulogy. 
I  should  like  to  stand  in  public 

And  proclaim  him  "friend  of  mine." 
But  that  is  n't  customary, 

So  I  give  the  world  no  sign 
Of  my  love  for  yonder  brother, 

Who  has  often  helped  me  here; 
I  am  waiting,  ere  I  praise  him, 

Till  I  stand  before  his  bier. 

EDGAR  A.  POST. 

EVERY-DAY  HEROES 

I  'LL  sing  you  a  song  with  a  full,  deep  breath  — 
For  my  blood  runs  fast  by  its  artery  walls  — 

Of  strong  men  brave  in  the  presence  of  death, 
And  quick  and  quiet  when  duty  calls. 

Of  a  foot  that  is  firm  on  the  brink  of  the  pit, 
Of  a  hand  with  a  grip  that  can  never  tire, 

Of  a  will  as  strong  as  a  Spanish  bit, 
And  a  heart  that 's  been  tried  by  fire. 

I  honor  the  men  who  have  fought  and  died 

For  the  sake  of  the  land  which  they  loved,  but  still, 

Alas!  for  the  courage  of  homicide, 

Condemned  by  God's  edict,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill!" 

But  the  men  who  jump  at  the  ring  of  the  bell 
And  harness  the  horses,  strong  and  fleet, 

Each  strap  in  its  place  and  buckled  well, 
And  in  fifteen  seconds  are  in  the  street; 


THE   POETRY   OF   EVERYDAY        301 

Who  climb  through  the  smoke  and  the  fire's  fierce  roar, 
Though  the  blazing  roof  may  come  crashing  through  — 

Those  are  the  men  that  I  honor  more, 
For  they  are  both  brave  and  human,  too. 

And  when  I  read  how  one  more  has  tried 

To  save  a  life,  and  has  paid  the  price 
Which  our  Lord  paid  once,  and  has  nobly  died, 

And  has  climbed  on  his  ladder  to  Paradise; 

And  I  know  that  his  comrades  had  done  the  same 
Had  they  been  where  he  was  —  my  pulses  thrill, 

And  I  humbly  say,  "I  am  much  to  blame, 
In  this  sordid  world  there  are  heroes  still." 

BERTRAND  SHADWELL. 

PRESERVING-TIME 

ALL  over  the  land  there  's  a  savory  smell, 

You  meet  it  abroad  or  at  home; 
The  days  of  your  childhood  come  back  for  a  spell, 

No  matter  how  far  you  may  roam  — 
'T  is  the  scent  of  preserving  the  strawberry  red, 

The  pineapple,  raspberry,  plum; 
That  the  gooseberry,  currant,  and  cherry  must  shed 

When  the  jelly  and  marmalade  come. 

For  the  kitchen 's  a  sight  in  these  summery  days, 

As  the  kettles  all  simmer  or  steam; 
The  mountains  of  sugar  we  view  with  amaze, 

And  the  fruits  are  an  epicure's  dream; 
Abroad  through  the  land  goes  the  savory  scent 

Made  by  nieces  of  good  Uncle  Sam; 
And  prosperity's  balm  with  th'  odor  is  blent 

Of  marmalade,  jelly,  and  jam. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  MAIL 

RESONANT,  full,  and  deep 

Is  the  voice  of  the  Midnight  Mail; 
It  rolls  through  the  shadowy  realms  of  sleep 

When  the  high  moon  gleams  on  the  rail. 
It  startles  the  drowsing  oak, 

And  the  clustered  pines  reply, 
And  the  gray  battalions  of  goblin  smoke 

Hang  moveless  under  the  sky. 


302  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

But,  oh,  not  the  lordly  notes 

That  waken  the  dreaming  hill, 
Nor  the  cloud-white  plume  that  backward  floats, 

Nor  the  clamor  that  warns,  "I  kill"  — 
Not  the  drifting  smoke  above, 

Nor  the  transient  furnace-glare,  — 
But  the  freightage  of  sorrow  and  joy  and  love 

Which  the  Midnight  Mail  doth  bear! 

The  great,  swift  wheels  —  the  long 

Yellow  chain  of  squares  agleam  — 
It  is  not  for  these  that  the  poet's  song 

Is  blent  with  the  roar  of  steam. 
Not  the  triumph  of  splendid  arts, 

Nor  the  prince  of  the  passionless  rail,  — 
But  the  anxious  eyes  and  the  beating  hearts 

That  wait  for  the  Midnight  Mail! 

WILLIAM  HURD  HILLTEB. 

A  BOARD  SCHOOL  PASTORAL 

ALONE  I  stay;  for  I  am  lame, 
I  cannot  join  them  at  the  game, 

The  lads  and  lasses; 
But  many  a  summer  holiday 
I  sit  apart  and  watch  them  play, 
And  well  I  know:  my  heart  can  say, 

When  Ella  passes. 

Of  all  the  maidens  in  the  place, 
'T  is  Ella  has  the  sunniest  face, 

Her  eyes  are  clearest. 
Of  all  the  girls,  or  here  or  there, 
'T  is  Ella's  voice  is  soft  and  rare, 
And  Ella  has  the  darkest  hair, 

And  Ella  's  dearest. 

Oh,  strong  the  lads  for  bat  or  ball, 
But  I  in  wit  am  first  of  all 

The  master  praises. 
The  master's  mien  is  grave  and  wise; 
But,  while  I  look  into  his  eyes, 
My  heart,  that  o'er  the  schoolroom  flies, 

At  Ella  gazes. 

And  Hal 's  below  me  every  day; 
For  Hal  is  wild,  and  he  is  gay, 
He  loves  not  learning. 


THE    POETRY   OF   EVERYDAY         303 

But  when  the  swiftest  runners  meet, 
Oh,  who  but  Hal  is  proud  and  fleet, 
And  there  's  a  smile  I  know  will  greet 
His  glad  returning. 

They  call  me  moody,  dull,  and  blind, 
They  say  with  books  I  maze  my  mind, 

The  lads  and  lasses; 
But  little  do  they  know  —  ah  me! 
How  with  my  book  upon  my  knee 
I  dream  and  dream,  but  ever  see 

Where  Ella  passes. 

MAT  KENDALL. 

THE  GERMAN  BAND 

JUST  a  German  band  a-playing  in  a  narrow  alley-way  — 
But  the  mind  of  him  who  hears  it  travels  back  to  yesterday  — 
Back  across  the  years  of  hustle  to  the  homely  little  town 
Where,  the  village  trombone  player,  in  his  youth  he  won  renown; 
The  grimy  city  fades  from  sight,  while  down  a  village  street 
He  sees  the  town  band  coming  —  hears  the  melodies  so  sweet  — 
"Ole  Black  Joe"  and  "Swanee  River"  and  "Since  Nellie  Went 

Away"  — 
Just  a  German  band  a-playing  in  a  narrow  alley-way. 

Just  "Die  Wacht  Am  Rhein"  a-mingling  with  the  city's  heat 

and  noise. 
But  the  man  who  hears  goes  marching  —  marching  once  more 

with  the  "boys." 

Now  his  patriotism 's  red-hot  in  a  "Glorious  Fourth"  parade  — 
Now  they  play  beneath  her  window  a  soft  "Lover's  Serenade"; 
The  wind  is  in  the  maples  tall  that  line  the  street;  the  moon 
Shines  down  upon  the  old  Town  Band,  a-winking  at  the  tune, 
And  in  the  lull  of  melody  they  hear  her  laughter  gay  — 
Just  a  German  band  a-playing  in  a  narrow  alley-way. 

Just  the  blare  of  brass  a-crashing  up  the  gloomy  heights  of  brick, 
Where  the  green  grass  is  as  rare  as  grimy  little  kids  are  thick, 
Where  all  is  rush  and  rattle,  dirt  and  greed  and  ceaseless  din, 
And  there  's  no  old-fashioned  garden  for  a  man  to  linger  in  — 
Just  "A  Hot  Time"  badly  rendered,  but  the  man  who  's  listening 


The  great  crowds  gathering  in  the  grove  beneath  the  arching 

trees, 
For  the  old-time  "Voters'  Rally,"  where  the  band  so  liked  to 

play- 
Just  a  German  band  perspiring  in  a  narrow  alley-way. 


304  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Just  a  comic  opera  chorus  rendered  for  the  loafers'  jeers, 
But  the  man  up  in  the  window  shuts  his  weary  eyes  and  hears 
The  old  Town  Band  in  action  —  how  they  glittered  in  the  sun!  — 
The  buttons  on  those  uniforms  that  by  hard  work  they'd  won; 
He  hears  "Sweet  Alice,"   "Nancy  Lee,"  "My  Old   Kentucky 

Home," 

He  sees  himself  there  marching  with  that  shiny  new  trombone, 
And  on  the  curb  a  pretty  face  —  a  girl  of  yesterday  — 
Just  a  German  band  a-playing  in  a  narrow  alley-way. 

EARL  DERR  BIGGERS. 

"/  NEVER  KNOWED" 

OLD  Billy  B.  was  a  pious  man, 

And  Heaven  was  his  goal; 
For,  being  a  very  saving  man, 

Of  course,  he  'd  save  his  soul. 
But  even  in  this,  he  used  to  say: 

"One  can't  too  careful  be!" 
And  he  sang  with  a  fervor  unassumed, 

"I'm  glad  salvation's  free." 

But  the  "means  of  grace"  he  had  to  own 

Required  good,  hard-earned  gold, 
And  he  took  ten  pews,  as  well  became 

The  richest  of  the  fold. 
"He  's  a  noble  man!"  the  preacher  cried, 

"Our  Christian  Brother  B." 
And  Billy  smiled  as  he  sublet  nine, 

And  got  his  own  pew  free. 

In  class  meeting  next,  our  Billy  told 

How  Heaven  had  gracious  been, 
Yea,  even  back  in  the  dark  days  when 

He  was  a  man  of  sin. 
"I  was  buildin'  a  barn  on  my  river  farm  — 

All  I  then  had,"  he  said, 
"I'd  run  out  o'  boards,  and  was  feedin'  hands 

On  nothin'  but  corn  bread. 

"I'll  tell  ye,  bretherin,  that  I  felt  blue, 

Short  o'  timber  and  cash, 
And  thought  I  'd  died  when  the  banks  then  bust, 

And  flooded  all  my  mash. 
But  the  Lord  was  merciful  to  me, 

And  sent  right  through  the  rift 
The  tide  had  made  in  the  river  banks, 

A  lumber  raft  adrift. 


THE   POETRY    OF   EVERYDAY         305 

"Plenty  o'  boards  was  there  for  the  barn, 

And  on  top  was  a  cheese. 
And  a  bar'l  o'  pork  as  sound  and  sweet 

As  any  one  ever  sees. 
Then  I  had  bread  and  meat  for  the  men, 

And  they  worked  with  a  will, 
While  I  thanked  God,  who  'd  been  good  to  me, 

And  1'mdoin'  of  it  still." 

A  shrill-voiced  sister  cried,  "Bless  the  Lord," 

The  whole  class  cried,  "Amen." 
But  a  keen-eyed  man  looked  at  Billy  B. 

In  thoughtful  way,  and  then 
Asked,  "Brother  B.,  did  you  ever  hear 

Who  lost  that  raft  and  load?  " 
And  Billy  wiped  his  eyes  and  said, 

"Bretherin,  I  never  knowed." 

WILLIAM  T.  CROASDALE. 

WHEN  A   MAN'S  OUT  OF  A   JOB 

ALL  Nature  is  sick  from  her  heels  to  her  hair, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job; 
She  is  all  out  of  kilter  and  out  of  repair, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job; 
Ain't  no  juice  in  the  earth  an'  no  salt  in  the  sea, 
Ain't  no  ginger  in  life  in  this  land  of  the  free, 
An'  the  Universe  ain't  what  it 's  cracked  up  to  be, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job. 

W'at  's  the  good  of  blue  skies,  an'  of  blossoming  trees, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job? 
W'en  your  boy  hez  large  patches  on  both  of  his  knees, 

An'  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job? 
Them  patches,  I  say,  look  so  big  in  your  eye 
That  they  shut  out  the  lan'scape  an'  cover  the  sky, 
An'  the  sun  can 't  shine  through  'em  the  best  it  can  try, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job. 

W'en  a  man  has  no  part  in  the  work  of  the  earth, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job, 
He  feels  the  whole  blundering  mistake  of  his  birth, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job; 
He  feels  he  's  no  share  in  the  whole  of  the  plan, 
That  he  's  got  the  mitten  from  Natur's  own  hand, 
That  he  's  a  rejected  and  left-over  man, 

W'en  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job. 


306  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

For  you  've  jest  lost  your  holt  with  the  rest  of  the  crowd, 

Wen  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job; 
An'  you  feel  like  a  dead  man  with  nary  a  shroud, 

Wen  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job. 

You  're  crawling  around,  but  you  're  out  of  the  game; 
You  may  hustle  about,  but  you  're  dead  just  the  same  — 
You  're  dead  with  no  tombstone  to  puff  up  your  name, 

Wen  a  feller  is  out  of  a  job. 

SAM  WALTER  FOBS. 

CHRYSALIDS 

HER  gaze  meets  his  as  he  looks  down 

Within  the  turmoil  of  the  street; 
And  all  the  clattering  of  the  town 

Fails,  and  is  silent  at  their  feet. 

They  move  to  music,  with  the  trill 

Of  birds  where  skyey  orchards  blow; 
And  far  from  them  the  winter  chill, 

The  smoke-stained  clouds,  and  drabbled  snow. 

Well  lost,  the  granite  street  and  walls, 
The  laden  wains,  the  shouts  and  stirs, 

In  that  revealing  glance  which  falls 
From  his  dear  eyes  quick  into  hers. 

Unreal  these  firmly  factful  things: 

The  traffic,  barter,  busy  schemes; 
For  all  earth's  strifes  and  bargainings 

Are  chrysalids  of  winged  dreams. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ONLY  A   FACTORY  GIRL 

Dedicated  to  the  millions  of  self-supporting  young  women  of 
America. 

ONLY  a  factory  girl, 
And  she  works  in  the  noisy  mill, 
But  her  hands  are  deft,  and  her  arms  are  strong, 
And  she  sings  at  her  work  the  whole  day  long, 

And  she  works  with  a  right  good  will; 
For  mother  at  home  is  growing  old, 
And  mother's  house  is  poor  and  cold, 

And  the  wintry  winds  are  chill; 
And  she  longs  for  the  day  to  quickly  come 
When  mother  may  have  a  better  home, 
And  so  she  toils  in  the  mill. 


THE  POETRY  OF  EVERY  DAY    307 

Only  a  factory  girl, 

And  the  hours  of  her  toil  are  long, 
But  her  mind  is  clear  and  her  soul  is  free, 

And  her  heart  is  glad  as  glad  can  be, 

As  she  sings  her  cheerful  song; 
For  every  day  in  plainer  view 
Comes  mother's  home  so  bright  and  new, 

As  the  time  speeds  quick  along; 
So  again  her  heart  leaps  forth  in  glee, 
And  her  good  pure  soul  is  again  more  free, 

As  she  sings  a  sweeter  song. 

Only  a  factory  girl, 

Her  mother's  hope  and  stay, 
But  her  love  is  strong  for  every  one, 
Like  the  glowing  beams  of  the  morning  sun 

As  he  ushers  in  the  day. 
Her  flowers  she  gives  to  the  sick  and  poor, 
And  she  always  keeps  an  open  door 

For  all  who  come  that  way. 
And  for  air  who  live  by  constant  toil, 
In  mill  or  mine  or  on  the  soil, 

She  hopes  for  a  better  day. 

C.    J.    BUELL. 

THE  AMERICAN  FIREMAN 

A  CLAMOR  and  clatter  of  galloping  hoofs 

With  their  rhythm  of  granite  and  steel, 
A  clangor  of  gongs  resounding  along 

From  beetling  block  to  block, 
And  out  of  the  dark  with  many  a  spark 

Great  engines  rush  and  reel, 
The  wagons  with  hose,  the  ladders  and  hooks, 

And  ever  the  sudden  shock 
That  the  shout  of  "Fire!"  thrills  into  the  night, 
That  the  burning  pine  and  the  eddying  light 
Bring  home  to  the  heart  to  make  it  leap, 

To  the  feet  to  make  them  race 
Wherever  the  cries  and  confusion  arise 
And  the  crowds  press  on  apace. 

Enveloping  every  darkling  height 

Which  the  storeyed  canyons  lift, 
From  the  seething  caldron  underneath, 

The  billowing  vapors  swirl; 
On  the  shrinking  crowd  with  a  jangling  loud 

The  hose-carts  sway,  and  swift 


308  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

At  the  corners  drop  the  lengthening  bands, 

And  on  to  the  burning  whirl; 
But  the  engine  ends  its  fiery  trail 
With  the  hose  made  fast  and  an  answering  wail 
As  the  helmeted  Chief  in  shadowy  white 

Through  the  glooming  trumpets,  "Play!" 
And  the  pipemen  grip  at  the  golden  lip 
Where  the  gushing  waters  spray. 

Through  pillared  smoke  from  the  windows  a-row 

Huge  flashes  shimmer  and  sweep 
To  redden  the  faces  of  men  in  the  street 

And  the  face  of  the  clouds  in  the  sky; 
There  's  a  clashing  of  glass,  and  the  lanterned  men  pass 

As  the  arrowy  fountains  leap, 
And  hoarsening,  echoing  noises  go  up 

Where  the  cornices  smoulder  on  high; 
While  over  the  din  with  a  pulsing  hum 
The  thunder  and  purr  of  the  engines  come, 
And  the  meteors  rise  from  their  quivering  throats 

To  fall  by  their  vibrant  frames, 
Till  the  murkiest  gleam  turns  pallid  with  steam 
As  their  showers  drown  the  flames. 

On  the  roofs  around  in  the  tremulous  light 

There  are  dusky  shapes  discerned; 
There  are  those  who  haul  great  ribands  of  pipe 

Aloft  by  the  sheerest  strength; 
There  are  glimpsing  forms  in  the  midst  of  storms 

By  flickering  fire-gusts  burned; 
There  are  mighty  ladders  alive  with  men 

Uplifting  their  fathoms  of  length; 
And  by  them  all  and  over  them  all 
Was  the  staunch  old  Chief  with  his  cheer  and  call, 
With  a  wit  that  made  this  machine  of  men 

And  engines  a  living  whole, 
With  a  quick  resource  and  an  undrained  force 
That  gave  it  responsive  soul. 

All  this  the  gathering  throng  below 

Can  see  through  the  glimmer  afar; 
With  a  shout  outflung  for  each  fiery  tongue, 

They  cheer  as  it  were  at  a  game; 
They  sigh  for  the  black  of  the  night  brought  back; 

Nor  think  of  the  desperate  war, 
Of  the  maddening  toil,  and  the  reek  to  breathe, 
And  the  garments  of  shuddering  flame: 


THE  POETRY  OF  EVERY  DAY    309 

For  if  ever  they  reckoned  the  direful  harm 
And  the  seething  fate  and  the  long  alarm 
That  the  firemen  fends  from  all  they  love 

By  his  duty  simply  done, 
No  warrior  a-stain  with  the  blood  of  his  slain 
Had  half  such  a  guerdon  won. 

CHRISTOPHER  BANNISTER. 

ONE  WITNESS 

THE  Secretary  was  a  presence  grim, 

Moody  and  cold,  and  full  of  cares  of  state; 

But  one  there  was  who,  mute,  defended  him  — 
His  little  dog  watched  for  him  at  the  gate. 

The  Secretary,  he  became  a  clod, 

Pomp  and  funereal  honors,  hearse  ornate; 

No  friends,  no  tears  —  but  in  the  sight  of  God 
His  little  dog  watched  for  him  at  the  gate. 

ANONYMOUS. 

SATURDAY  NIGHT 

SATURDAY  night  in  the  crowded  town; 
Pleasure  and  pain  going  up  and  down. 
Murmuring  low  on  the  ear  there  beat 
Echoes  unceasing  of  voice  and  feet. 
Withered  age  with  its  load  of  care, 
Come  in  this  tumult  of  life  to  share, 
Childhood  glad  in  its  radiance  brief, 
Happiest-hearted  or  bowed  with  grief, 
Meet  alike,  as  the  stars  look  down 
Week  by  week  on  the  crowded  town. 

And  in  a  kingdom  of  mystery 
Rapt  from  this  weariful  world  to  see 
Magic  sights  in  the  yellow  glare, 
Breathing  delight  in  the  gas-lit  air, 
Careless  of  sorrow,  of  grief  or  pain, 
Two  by  two,  again  and  again, 
Strephon  and  Chloe  together  move 
Walking  in  Arcady,  land  of  love  ! 

What  are  the  meanings  that  burden  all 
These  murmuring  voices  that  rise  and  fall? 
Tragedies  whispered  of,  secrets  told, 
Over  the  baskets  of  bought  and  sold; 
Joyous  speech  of  the  lately  wed; 


310  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Broken  lamen tings  that  name  the  dead: 
Endless  runes  of  the  gossip's  rede; 
And,  gathered  home  with  the  weekly  need, 
Kindly  greetings,  as  neighbors  meet 
There  in  the  stir  of  the  busy  street. 

Then  is  the  glare  of  the  gaslight  ray 
Gifted  with  potency  strange  to-day. 
Records  of  time-written  history 
Flash  into  sight  as  each  face  goes  by. 
There  as  the  hundreds  slow  moving  go, 
Each  with  his  burden  of  joy  or  woe, 
Souls,  in  the  meeting  of  strangers'  eyes 
Startled  this  kinship  to  recognize, 
Meet  and  part,  as  the  stars  look  down 
Week  by  week  on  the  crowded  town. 

And  still,  in  the  midst  of  the  busy  hum, 
Rapt  in  their  dreams  of  delight  they  come. 
Heedless  of  sorrow,  of  grief  or  care, 
Wandering  on  in  enchanted  air, 
Far  from  the  haunting  shadow  of  pain; 
Two  by  two,  again  and  again, 
Strephon  and  Chloe  together  move, 
Walking  in  Arcady,  land  of  love. 

MARY  COLBURNE  VEEL. 

ONCE  IN  A   WHILE 

ONCE  in  a  while  the  skies  seem  blue, 

The  way  grows  pleasant  for  a  mile; 
Fair  blossoms  spring  where  no  flowers  grew  — 
Once  in  a  while. 

We  leave  the  road  and  mount  the  stile, 
And  hear  the  throstles  anew  — 
An  anthem  in  a  vaulted  aisle. 

Grief  loses  somewhat  of  its  hue, 

Tired,  tear-worn  eyes  look  up  and  smile, 
When  God's  sweet  sunshine  stealeth  through, 
Once  in  a  while. 

W.  FRANCIS  CHAMBERS. 


Part 
WAR,  PEACE,  AND    HISTORY 


Is  it  not  well,  my  brethren  ?     There  is  made 

One  song  through  all  the  land, 
Before  one  light  old  doubts  and  shadows  fade, 

With  old  lines  drawn  in  sand. 
The  past  lies  dead.     New  sight,  a  broader  view, 
For  the  Republic  sees  a  purpose  new 

Of  boundless  scope. 

While  like  a  sun  that  burns  with  clearer  flame 
Sweeps  rising  through  the  sky  her  spotless  fame, 
And  lights  a  land  that  knows  one  love,  one  aim, 

One  flag,  one  faith,  one  hope. 

CHARLES  E.  RUSSELL. 


Part 
WAR,   PEACE,   AND  HISTORY 

HOW  WE  BURNED   THE  PHILADELPHIA 

BY  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  the  Bashaw  swore 

He  would  scourge  us  from  the  seas; 
Yankees  should  trouble  his  soul  no  more  — 
By  the  Prophet's  beard  the  Bashaw  swore, 

Then  lighted  his  hookah,  and  took  his  ease, 
And  troubled  his  soul  no  more. 

The  moon  was  dim  in  the  western  sky, 

And  a  mist  fell  soft  on  the  sea, 
As  we  slipped  away  from  the  Siren  brig 

And  headed  for  Tripoli. 

Behind  us  the  bulk  of  the  Siren  lay, 

Before  us  the  empty  night; 
And  when  again  we  looked  behind 

The  Siren  was  gone  from  sight. 

Nothing  behind  us,  and  nothing  before, 

Only  the  silence  and  rain, 
As  the  jaws  of  the  sea  took  hold  of  our  bows 

And  cast  us  up  again. 

Through  the  rain  and  the  silence  we  stole  along, 

Cautious  and  stealthy  and  slow, 
For  we  knew  the  waters  were  full  of  those 

Who  might  challenge  the  Mastico. 

But  nothing  we  saw  till  we  saw  the  ghost 

Of  the  ship  we  had  come  to  see, 
Her  ghostly  lights  and  her  ghostly  frame 

Rolling  uneasily. 

And  as  we  looked,  the  mist  drew  up 

And  the  moon  threw  off  her  veil, 
And  we  saw  the  ship  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

Ghostly  and  drear  and  pale. 
313 


314  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Then  spoke  Decatur  low  and  said: 
"To  the  bulwarks'  shadow  all! 

But  the  six  who  wear  the  Tripoli  dress 
Shall  answer  the  sentinel's  call." 

"What  ship  is  that?"  cried  the  sentinel. 

"No  ship,"  was  the  answer  free; 
"But  only  a  Malta  ketch  in  distress 

Wanting  to  moor  in  your  lee. 

"We  have  lost  our  anchor,  and  wait  for  day 

To  sail  into  Tripoli  town, 
And  the  sea  rolls  fierce  and  high  to-night, 

So  cast  a  cable  down." 

Then  close  to  the  frigate's  side  we  came, 
Made  fast  to  her  unforbid  — 

Six  of  us  bold  in  the  heathen  dress, 
The  rest  of  us  lying  hid. 

But  one  who  saw  us  hiding  there 

"Americano"  cried. 
Then  straight  we  rose  and  made  a  rush 

Pell-mell  up  the  frigate's  side. 

Less  than  a  hundred  men  were  we, 
And  the  heathen  were  twenty-score; 

But  a  Yankee  sailor  in  those  old  days 
Liked  odds  of  one  to  four. 

And  first  we  cleaned  the  quarter  deck, 
And  then  from  stern  to  stem 

We  charged  into  our  enemies 
And  quickly  slaughtered  them. 

All  around  was  the  dreadful  sound 

Of  corpses  striking  the  sea, 
And  the  awful  shrieks  of  dying  men 

In  their  last  agony. 

The  heathen  fought  like  devils  all, 

But  one  by  one  they  fell, 
Swept  from  the  deck  by  our  cutlasses 

To  the  water,  and  so  to  hell. 

Some  we  found  in  the  black  of  the  hold, 

Some  to  the  fo'c's'le  fled, 
But  all  in  vain;  we  sought  them  out 

And  left  them  lying  dead; 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY          315 

Till  at  last  no  soul  but  Christian  souls 

Upon  that  ship  was  found; 
The  twenty-score  were  dead,  and  we, 

The  hundred,  safe  and  sound. 

And,  stumbling  over  the  tangled  dead, 

The  deck  a  crimson  tide, 
We  fired  the  ship  from  keel  to  shrouds 

And  tumbled  over  the  side. 

Then  out  to  sea  we  sailed  once  more 

With  the  world  as  light  as  day, 
And  the  flames  revealed  a  hundred  sail 

Of  the  heathen  there  in  the  bay. 

All  suddenly  the  red  light  paled, 

And  the  rain  rang  out  on  the  sea; 
Then  —  a  dazzling  flash,  a  deafening  roar, 

Between  us  and  Tripoli! 

Then  nothing  behind  us,  and  nothing  before, 

Only  the  silence  and  rain; 
And  the  jaws  of  the  sea  took  hold  of  our  bows 

And  cast  us  up  again. 

By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  the  Bashaw  swore 

He  would  scourge  us  from  the  seas; 
Yankees  should  trouble  his  soul  no  more  — 
By  the  Prophet's  beard  the  Bashaw  swore, 

Then  lighted  his  hookah  and  took  his  ease, 
And  troubled  his  soul  no  more. 

BARRETT  EASTMAN. 

MOTHER  WEST 

THERE  is  a  mother,  legend  runs, 

Of  mothers  quite  the  best, 
Who  boasts  ten  million  sturdy  sons 

'Twixt  plain  and  mountain  crest; 
She  gives  of  wealth  in  goodly  store, 
She  gives  abounding  health  —  and,  more, 
She  opens  wide  Contentment's  door  — 

Her  name  is  Mother  West. 

Beneath  the  blazing  stars,  low-swung, 

Where  eagles  make  their  nest, 
Her  hardy  boys  to  crags  have  clung 

And  faced  death  with  a  jest; 


316  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

And  on  the  cattle-dotted  plain, 
Where  ranch  lights  now  gleam  through  the  rain, 
Right  cheerily  her  sons  have  lain 
And  died  for  Mother  West. 

For  she  a  mystic  spell  has  laid 

Upon  the  human  breast; 
To  break  her  bonds  men  have  essayed, 

But  well  they  stand  the  test; 
For  every  pulsing  heart  she  claims, 
And  every  mind,  with  all  its  aims, 
Once  yielding  to  her  sunset  flames 

Belongs  to  Mother  West. 

O  thou,  whose  bounties  never  fail, 

We  are  thy  children  blest; 
To  foreign  shores  we  may  set  sail, 

Our  pilot  strange  unrest; 
But  still  thy  nestlings  turn  to  thee  — 
Thy  hills,  thy  plains,  thy  mystery  — 
And,  at  the  last,  from  oversea 

Come  home  to  Mother  West. 

ARTHUR  CHAPMAN. 

THE  PIONEERS 

PALE  in  the  east  a  filmy  moon 

Creeps  up  the  empty  sky, 
And  the  pallid  prairie  rounds  bleak  below, 

And  we  wonder  that  we  are  here;  and  the  thin  winds  sigh 

Through  the  broken  stalks  of  the  sunflowers  that  wait  to  die, 
And  the  sun  is  gone,  and  the  darkness  begins  to  grow, 

And  out  on  the  shadowy  plains  we  hear  the  coyote's  cry. 

Out  of  the  dark  of  the  prairie  plains  — 
What  lurks  in  the  darkened  plains? 

It  is  there  that  the  coyote  howls, 

It  is  there  that  the  Indian  prowls, 
Sinewy-footed,  alert, 
Watching  to  do  us  hurt; 

And  the  sombre  buffalo 

Pace,  ominous  and  slow, 

With  their  black  beards  trailing  low 

Over  the  sifting  snow. 
And  we,  we  cower  and  shake, 
Lying  all  night  awake,  — 

We  in  our  little  sod-built  hut  in  the  heart  of  the  plain. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  317 

God  guard  us,  and  make  vain 

The  wiles  of  the  Indian  foe; 

God  show  us  how  to  go, 
And  lead  us  in  again 
Out  of  the  dread  of  the  plain, 

Home  to  the  mountains  and  hills  that  our  childhood  knew, 

Where  over  the  sombre  pine  trees  the  sea  shines  blue. 

HERBERT  BATES. 


THE  FIGHT  AT  THE  SAN  JACINTO 

"Now  for  a  brisk  and  cheerful  fight!" 

Said  Harman  big  and  droll, 
As  he  coaxed  his  flint  and  steel  for  a  light, 

And  puffed  at  his  cold  clay  bowl; 
"For  we  are  a  skulking  lot,"  says  he, 

"Of  land-thieves  hereabout, 
And  these  bold  senores,  two  to  one, 

Have  come  to  smoke  us  out." 

Santa  Anna  and  Castrillon, 

Almonte  brave  and  gay, 
Portrilla  red  with  Goliad, 

And  Cos  with  his  smart  array. 
Dulces  and  cigaritos, 

And  the  light  guitar,  ting-turn! 
Sant'  Anna  courts  siesta  — 

And  Sam  Houston  taps  his  drum. 

The  buck  stands  still  in  the  timber  — 

"Is't  the  patter  of  nuts  that  fall?" 
The  foal  of  the  wild  mare  whinnies  — 

Did  he  hear  the  Comanche  call? 
In  the  brake  by  the  crawling  bayou 

The  slinking  she- wolves  howl; 
And  the  mustang's  snort  in  the  river  sedge 

Has  started  the  padding  fowl. 

A  soft,  low  tap,  and  a  muffled  tap, 

And  a  roll  not  loud  or  long  — 
We  would  not  break  Sant'  Anna's  nap, 

Nor  spoil  Amonte's  song. 
Saddles  and  knives  and  rifles! 

Lord!  but  the  men  were  glad 
When  Deaf  Smith  muttered  "Alamo!" 

And  Karaes  hissed  "Goliad!" 


318  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

The  drummer  tucked  his  sticks  in  his  belt, 

And  the  fifer  gripped  his  gun. 
Oh,  for  one  free,  wild,  Texan  yell, 

As  we  took  the  slope  in  a  run! 
But  never  a  shout  nor  a  shot  we  spent, 

Nor  an  oath  nor  prayer,  that  day, 
Till  we  faced  the  bravos,  eye  to  eye, 

And  then  we  blazed  away. 

Then  we  knew  the  rapture  of  Ben  Milam, 

And  the  glory  that  Travis  made, 
With  Bowie's  lunge,  and  Crockett's  shot, 

And  Fannin's  dancing  blade; 
And  the  heart  of  the  fighter,  bounding  free 

In  his  joy  so  hot  and  mad  — 
When  Millard  charged  for  Alamo, 

Lamar  for  Goliad. 

Deaf  Smith  rode  straight,  with  reeking  spur, 

Into  the  shock  and  rout: 
"I've  hacked  and  burned  the  bayou  bridge; 

There  's  no  sneak's  back-way  out!" 
Muzzle  or  butt  for  Goliad, 

Pistol  and  blade  and  fist! 
Oh,  for  the  knife  that  never  glanced, 

And  the  gun  that  never  missed! 

Dulces  and  cigaritos, 

Song  and  the  mandolin! 
That  gory  swamp  is  a  gruesome  grove 

To  dance  fandangos  in. 
We  bridged  the  bog  with  the  sprawling  herd 

That  fell  in  that  frantic  rout; 
We  slew  and  slew  till  the  sun  set  red, 

And  the  Texan  star  flashed  out. 

JOHN  WILLIAMSON  PALMER. 

BETSY'S  BATTLE  FLAG 

Betsy  Ross  made  the  first  flag  with  the  stars  and  stripes  in 
Philadelphia  during  June,  1775,  at  the  instance  of  General 
Washington. 

FROM  dusk  till  dawn  the  livelong  night 
She  kept  her  tallow  dips  alight, 
And  fast  her  nimble  fingers  flew 
To  sew  the  stars  upon  the  blue. 
With  weary  eyes  and  aching  head 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  319 

She  stitched  the  stripes  of  white  and  red, 
And  when  the  day  came  up  the  stair 
Complete  across  a  carven  chair 
Hung  Betsy's  battle  flag. 

Like  shadows  in  the  evening  gray 
The  Continentals  filed  away, 
With  broken  boots  and  ragged  coats, 
With  hoarse  defiance  in  their  throats; 
They  bore  the  marks  of  want  and  cold, 
And  some  were  lame  and  some  were  old, 
And  some  with  wounds  untended  bled, 
But  floating  bravely  overhead 
Was  Betsy's  battle  flag. 

When  fell  the  battle's  leaden  rain, 
The  soldier  hushed  his  moans  of  pain 
And  raised  his  dying  head  to  see 
King  Geoge's  troopers  turn  and  flee. 
Their  charging  column  reeled  and  broke, 
And  vanished  in  the  rolling  smoke, 
Before  the  glory  of  the  stars, 
The  snowy  stripes,  and  scarlet  bars 
Of  Betsy's  battle  flag. 

The  simple  stone  of  Betsy  Ross 
Is  covered  now  with  mould  and  moss, 
But  still  her  deathless  banner  flies, 
And  keeps  the  color  of  the  skies. 
A  nation  thrills,  a  nation  bleeds, 
A  nation  follows  where  it  leads, 
And  every  man  is  proud  to  yield 
His  life  upon  a  crimson  field 
For  Betsy's  battle  flag. 

MINNA  IRVING. 

THE  FIGHTING  RACE 

"READ  out  the  names!"  and  Burke  sat  back, 

And  Kelly  dropped  his  head. 
While  Shea  —  they  called  him  Scholar  Jack  — 

Went  down  the  list  of  the  dead, 
Officers,  seamen,  gunners,  marines, 

The  crews  of  the  gig  and  yawl, 
The  bearded  man  and  the  lad  in  his  teens, 

Carpenters,  coal-passers  —  all. 
Then,  knocking  the  ashes  from  out  his  pipe, 

Said  Burke  in  an  off-hand  way: 


320  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

"We  're  all  in  that  dead  man's  list,  by  Gripe! 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here  's  to  the  Maine,  and  I'm  sorry  for  Spain," 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"Wherever  there  's  Kelly  there  's  trouble,"  said  Burke. 

"Wherever  fighting  's  the  game, 
Or  a  spice  of  danger  in  grown  man's  work," 

Said  Kelly,  "you  '11  find  my  name." 
"And  do  we  fall  short,"  said  Burke,  getting  mad, 

"When  it 's  touch  and  go  for  life?" 
Said  Shea,  "It 's  thirty-odd  years,  bedad, 

Since  I  charged  to  drum  and  fife 
Up  Marye's  Heights,  and  my  old  canteen 

Stopped  a  rebel  ball  on  its  way; 
There  were  blossoms  of  blood  on  our  sprigs  of  green  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea  — 
And  the  dead  did  n't  brag."     "Well,  here  's  to  the  flag! " 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"I  wish  't  was  in  Ireland,  for  there  's  the  place," 

Said  Burke,  "that  we  'd  die  by  right, 
In  the  cradle  of  our  soldier  race, 

After  one  good  stand-up  fight. 
My  grandfather  fell  on  Vinegar  Hill, 

And  fighting  was  not  his  trade; 
But  his  rusty  pike  's  in  the  cabin  still, 

With  Hessian  blood  on  the  blade." 
"Aye,  aye,"  said  Kelly,  "the  pikes  were  great 

When  the  word  was  '  clear  the  way ' ! 
We  were  thick  on  the  roll  in  ninety-eight  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here  's  to  the  pike  and  the  sword  and  the  like!" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

And  Shea,  the  scholar,  with  rising  joy, 

Said:  "We  were  at  Ramillies, 
We  left  our  bones  at  Fontenoy 

And  up  in  the  Pyrenees. 
Before  Dunkirk,  on  Landen's  plain, 

Cremona,  Lille,  and  Ghent, 
We  're  all  over  Austria,  France,  and  Spain, 

Wherever  they  pitch  a  tent. 
We  've  died  for  England,  from  Waterloo 

To  Egypt  and  Dargai; 
And  still  there  Js  enough  for  a  corps  or  crew  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here  's  to  good  honest  fighting  blood!" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND   HISTORY  321 

"Oh,  the  fighting  races  don't  die  out, 

If  they  seldom  die  in  bed, 
For  love  is  first  in  their  hearts,  no  doubt," 

Said  Burke,  then  Kelly  said: 
"When  Michael,  the  Irish  archangel,  stands, 

The  angel  with  the  sword, 
And  the  battle-dead  from  a  hundred  lands 

Are  ranged  in  one  big  horde, 
Our  line,  that  for  Gabriel's  trumpet  waits, 

Will  stretch  three  deep  that  day, 
From  Jehosaphat  to  the  Golden  Gates  — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here  's  thank  God  for  the  race  and  the  sod!" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

JOSEPH  I.  C.  CLARKE. 

THE  KEARSARGE 

The  Kearsarge,  which  destroyed  the  Confederate  cruiser  Alabama 
off  Cherbourg,  France,  was  wrecked  on  Roncador  reef,  in  the 
Caribbean  Sea,  February  2,  1894. 

IN  the  gloomy  ocean  bed 

Dwelt  a  formless  thing  and  said, 
In  the  dim  and  countless  aeons  long  ago, 

"I  will  build  a  stronghold  high, 

Ocean's  power  to  defy, 
And  the  pride  of  haughty  man  to  lay  low." 

Crept  the  minutes  for  the  sad, 

Sped  the  cycles  for  the  glad, 
But  the  march  of  time  was  neither  less  nor  more; 

While  the  formless  atom  died, 

Myriad  millions  by  its  side, 
And  above  them  slowly  lifted  Roncador. 

Roncador  of  Caribee, 

Coral  dragon  of  the  sea, 
Ever  sleeping  with  his  teeth  below  the  wave; 

Woe  to  him  who  breaks  the  sleep! 

Woe  to  them  who  sail  the  deep! 
Woe  to  ship  and  man  that  fear  a  shipman's  grave! 

Hither  many  a  galleon  old, 

Heavy-keeled  with  guilty  gold, 
Fled  before  the  hardy  rover  smiting  sore; 

But  the  sleeper  silent  lay 

Till  the  preyer  and  his  prey 
Brought  their  plunder  and  their  bones  to  Roncador. 


322  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Be  content,  O  conqueror! 

Now  the  bravest  ship-of-war, 
War  and  tempest  who  had  often  braved  before, 

All  her  storied  prowess  past, 

Strikes  her  glorious  flag  at  last 
To  the  formless  thing  that  builded  Roncador. 

JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

UNRECONSTRUCTED 

For  the  benefit  of  those  whose  sense  of  humor  goes  into  eclipse 
when  serious  matters  are  treated  lightly,  it  is  to  be  observed  that  this 
stirring  ballad  was  written  by  one  of  the  younger  generation  in 
Virginia  to  satirize  the  attitude  of  certain  of  his  elders. 

I  AM  a  good  old  rebel  — 

Yes;  that's  just  what  I  am  — 
And  for  this  land  of  freedom 

I  do  not  give  a  dam'. 
I  'm  glad  I  fit  agin  'em, 

And  I  only  wish  we  'd  won; 
And  I  don't  ax  any  pardin 

For  anything  I  've  done. 

I  hate  the  Yankee  nation  — 

Hate  everything  they  do; 
I  hate  their  Declaration 

Of  Independence,  too: 
I  hate  their  pesky  eagle 

With  all  its  brag  and  fuss  — 

0  the  lyin',  thievin'  Yankees, 
I  hate  'em  wuss  and  wuss! 

1  fit  with  ol'  Mars'  Robert 
For  four  years  tharabout; 

Got  wounded  in  three  places 

And  starved  at  Point  Lookout; 
I  cotched  the  rheumatizzum 

A-campin'  in  the  snow; 
But  I  killed  a  chance  o'  Yankees  — 

And  I  wish  I'd  killed  some  mo'. 

Three  hundred  thousand  Yankees 

Lie  stiff  in  Southern  dus'. 
We  killed  three  hundred  thousand 

Before  they  conquered  us. 
They  died  of  Southern  fever, 

Of  Southern  shell  and  shot  — 
An'  I  wish  it  had  been  three  million 

Instid  o'  what  we  got. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  323 

I  cain't  take  up  my  musket 

To  fight  'em  any  mo' ; 
But  I  ain't  a-gwine  to  love  'em, 

And  that  is  sartain  sho'. 
I  don't  ax  any  pardin 

For  what  I  was  or  am, 
For  I  won't  be  reconstructed, 

And  I  don't  give  a  dam'. 

INNES  RANDOLPH. 

BALLAD  OF  THE  SABRE  CROSS  AND    7 

A  TROOP  of  sorrels  led  by  Vic  and  then  a  troop  of  bays; 

In  the  backward  ranks  of  the  foaming  flanks  a  double  troop 

of  grays; 
The  horses  are  galloping  muzzle  to  tail,  and  back  of  the  waving 

manes 
The  troopers  sit,  their  brows  all  knit,  a  left  hand  on  the  reins. 

Their  hats  are  gray,  and  their  shirts  of  blue  have  a  sabre  cross 

and  7, 
And  little  they  know,  when  the  trumpeters  blow,  they  '11  halt 

at  the  gates  of  Heaven. 
Their  colors  have  dipped  at  the  top  of  the  ridge  —  how  the  line 

of  cavalry  waves!  — 
And  over  the  hills,  at  a  gallop  that  kills,  they  are  riding  to  get 

to  their  graves. 

"I  heard  the  scouts  jabber  all  night,"  said  one;  "they  peppered 

my  dreams  with  alarm. 
That  old  Ree  scout  had  his  medicine  out  an'  was  trying  to  fix 

up  a  charm." 
There  are  miles  of  tepees  just  ahead,  and  the  warriors  in  hollow 

and  vale 
Lie  low  in  the  grass  till  the  troopers  pass,  and  then  they  creep 

over  the  trail. 

The  trumpets  have  sounded  —  the  General  shouts!     He  pulls 

up  and  turns  to  the  rear; 
"We  can't  go  back  —  they've  covered  our  track  —  we've  got 

t'  fight  'em  here." 
He  rushes  a  troop  to  the  point  of  the  ridge  where  the  valley  opens 

wide, 
And  Smith  deploys  a  line  of  the  boys  to  stop  the  coming  tide. 

There  's  a  fringe  of  fire  on  the  skirt  of  the  hills;  in  every  deep 

ravine 
The  savages  yell,  like  the  fiends  of  hell,  behind  a  smoky  screen. 


324  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

"Where's  Reno?"   said  Custer,   "Why  don't  he  charge?     It 

isn't  time  to  dally!" 
And  he  shouts  for  help,  and  he  waves  his  hat  to  the  men  across 

the  valley. 

There  's  a  wild  stampede  of  horses;  every  man  in  the  skirmish 

line 

Stands  at  his  post  as  a  howling  host  rush  up  the  steep  incline. 
Their  rifles  answer  the  deadly  fire  and  they  fall  with  a  fighting 

frown, 
Till  two  by  two,  in  a  row  of  blue,  the  skirmish  line  is  down. 

A  trooper  stood  over  his  wounded  mate,  "No  use  o'  you  tryin' 

t'  fight, 
Blow  .out  yer   brains  —  you  '11   suffer   hell-pains   when   ye   go 

to  the  torture  to-night. 
We  tackled  too  much;  't  was  a  desperate  game  —  I  knowed  we 

never  could  win  it. 
Custer  is  dead  —  they  're  all  of  'em  dead  an'  I  shall  be  dead 

in  a  minute." 

They're  all  of  them  down  at  the  top  of  the  ridge;  the  sabre 

cross  and  7 
On  many  a  breast,  as  it  lies  at  rest,  is  turned  to  the  smoky 

heaven. 
The  wounded  men  are  up  and  away;  they  're  running  hard  for 

their  lives, 
While  the  bloody  corse  of  rider  and  horse  is  quivering  under 

the  knives. 

Some  troopers  watch  from  a  distant  hill  with  hope  that  never 
tires; 

As  the  shadows  fall  on  the  camp  of  Gall  they  can  see  its  hun 
dred  fires. 

And  phantoms  ride  on  the  dusky  plain  and  the  troopers  tell 
their  fears; 

As  the  bugle  rings,  the  song  it  sings  they  hope  may  reach  his 
ears. 

There  's  a  reeling  dance  on  the  river's  edge;  its  echoes  fill  the 

night; 
In  the  valley  dim,  the  shadows  swim  on  a  lengthening  pool  of 

light. 
On  the  Hill  of  Fear  the  troopers  stand  and  listen  with  bated 

breath, 
While  the  bugle  strains  on  lonely  plains  are  searching  the  valley 

of  death. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  325 

"What  is  that  like  tumbled  gravestones  on  the  hilltop  there 

ahead?" 
Said  the  trooper  peering  through  his  glass,  "My  God!  sir,   it 's 

the  dead! 
How  white  they  look!     How  white  they  look!  they  've    killed 

'em  —  every  one ! 
An'  they  're  stripped  as  bare  as  babies  an'  they  're   rotting  in 

the  sun." 

And  Custer  —  back  of  the  tumbled  line  on  a  slope  of  the  ridge 

we  found  him; 
And  three  men  deep  in  a  bloody  heap,  they  fell  as  they  rallied 

'round  him. 
The  plains  lay  brown  like  a  halted  sea  held  firm  by  the  hand 

of  God; 
In  the  rolling  waves  we  dug  their  graves  and  left  them  under 

the  sod. 

IRVING  BACHELLER. 

STRIKE  THE  BLOW 

THE  four-way  winds  of  the  world  have  blown, 

And  the  ships  have  ta'en  the  wave; 
The  legions  march  to  the  trumps'  shrill  call 
'Neath  the  flag  of  the  free  and  brave. 
The  hounds  of  the  sea 
Have  trailed  the  foe, 

They  have  trailed  and  tracked  him  down,  — 
Then  wait  no  longer,  but  strike,  O  land, 
With  the  dauntless  strength  of  thy  strong  right  hand, 
Strike  the  blow! 

The  armored  fleets,  with  their  grinning  guns, 

Have  the  Spaniard  in  his  lair; 

They  have  tracked  him  down  where  the  ramparts  frown, 
And  they  '11  halt  and  hold  him  there. 
They  have  steamed  in  his  wake, 

They  have  seen  him  go, 
They  have  bottled  and  corked  him  up; 

Then  send  him  home  to  the  under-foam, 
Till  the  wide  sea  shakes  to  the  far  blue  dome; 
Strike  the  blow! 

The  Cuban  dead  and  the  dying  call, 

The  children  starved  in  the  light 
Of  the  aid  that  waits  till  the  hero  deed 

Breaks  broad  on  the  tyrant's  might. 
The  starved  and  the  weak 


326  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

In  their  hour  of  woe 
Are  calling,  land,  on  thee; 

Then  why  delay  in  thy  dauntless  sway? 

On,  on,  to  the  charge  of  the  freedom- way! 
Strike  the  blow! 


They  have  ta'en  the  winds  of  the  Carib  seas, 

Thy  fleets  that  know  not  fear; 
Their  ribs  of  steel  have  yearned  to  reel 
In  the  dance  of  the  cannoneer. 
Thy  sons  of  the  blue 

That  wait  to  go 
Would  leap  with  a  will  to  the  charge, 

Then  send  them  the  word  so  long  deferred; 
They  have  listened  late,  but  they  have  not  heard; 
Strike  the  blow! 


They  have  listened  late  in  the  desolate  land, 
They  have  looked  through  brimming  eyes, 
And  starving  women  have  held  dead  babes 
To  their  hearts  with  a  thousand  sighs. 
On,  on,  to  the  end, 

O  land,  the  foe 
Beneath  thy  sword  shall  fall; 

Thy  ships  of  steel  have  tracked  them  home, 
Ye  are  king  of  the  land  and  king  of  the  foam. 
Strike  the  blow! 

ANONYMOUS. 
CHICKAMAUGA 

THEY  are  camped  on  Chickamauga! 

Once  again  the  white  tents  gleam 
On  that  field  where  vanished  heroes 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dream. 
There  are  shadows  all  about  them 

Of  the  ghostly  troops  to-day, 
But  they  light  the  common  campfire  — 

Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray. 

Where  the  pines  of  Georgia  tower, 

Where  the  mountains  kiss  the  sky, 
On  their  arms  the  nation's  warriors 

Wait  to  hear  the  battle-cry. 
Wait  together,  friends  and  brothers, 

And  the  heroes  'neath  their  feet 
Sleep  the  long  and  dreamless  slumber 

Where  the  flowers  are  blooming  sweet. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  327 

Sentries,  pause,  yon  shadow  challenge! 

Rock-ribbed  Thomas  goes  that  way  — 
He  who  fought  the  foes  unyielding 

In  that  awful  battle  fray. 
Yonder  pass  the  shades  of  heroes, 

And  they  follow  where  Bragg  leads 
Through  the  meadows  and  the  river, 

But  no  ghost  the  sentry  heeds. 

Field  of  fame,  a  patriot  army 

Treads  thy  sacred  sod  to-day! 
And  they'll  fight  a  common  foeman, 

Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray, 
And  they  '11  fight  for  common  country, 

And  they  '11  charge  to  victory 
'Neath  the  folds  of  one  brave  banner  — 

Starry  banner  of  the  free! 

They  are  camped  on  Chickamauga, 

Where  the  green  tents  of  the  dead 
Turn  the  soil  into  a  glory 

Where  a  nation's  heart  once  bled; 
But  they  're  clasping  hands  together 

On  this  storied  field  of  strife  — 
Brothers  brave  who  meet  to  battle 

In  the  freedom-war  of  life! 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  RUSH  OF  THE  OREGON 

THEY  held  her  South  to  Magellan's  mouth, 

Then  East  they  steered  her,  forth 
Through  the  farther  gate  of  the  crafty  strait, 

And  then  they  held  her  North. 

Six  thousand  miles  to  the  Indian  Isles! 

And  the  Oregon  rushed  home, 
Her  wake  a  swirl  of  jade  and  pearl, 

Her  bow  a  bend  of  foam. 

And  when  at  Rio  the  cable  sang, 

"There  is  war!  — grim  war  with  Spain!" 

The  swart  crews  grinned  and  stroked  their  guns 
And  thought  on  the  mangled  Maine. 

In  the  glimmering  gloom  of  the  engine  room 

There  was  joy  to  each  grimy  soul, 
And  fainting  men  sprang  up  again 

And  piled  the  blazing  coal. 


328  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Good  need  was  there  to  go  with  care; 

But  every  sailor  prayed 
Or  gun  for  gun,  or  six  to  one 

To  meet  them,  unafraid. 

Her  goal  at  last!     With  joyous  blast 

She  hailed  the  welcoming  roar 
Of  hungry  sea-wolves  curved  along 

The  strong-hilled  Cuban  shore. 

Long  nights  went  by.     Her  beamed  eye, 

Unwavering,  searched  the  bay 
Where  trapped  and  penned  for  a  certain  end 

The  Spanish  squadron  lay. 

Out  of  the  harbor  a  curl  of  smoke  — 

A  watchful  gun  rang  clear. 
Out  of  the  channel  the  squadron  broke 

Like  a  bevy  of  frightened  deer. 

Then  there  was  shouting  for  "Steam,  more  steam!" 
And  the  fires  gleamed  white  and  red; 

And  guns  were  manned,  and  ranges  planned, 
And  the  great  ships  leaped  ahead. 

Then  there  was  roaring  of  chorusing  guns, 

Shatter  of  shell,  and  spray; 
And  who  but  the  Oregon 

Was  fiercest  in  chase  and  fray! 

For  her  mighty  wake  was  a  seething  snake; 

Her  bow  was  a  billow  of  foam: 
Like  the  mailed  fists  of  an  angry  wight 

Her  shot  drove  crashing  home! 

Pride  of  the  Spanish  navy,  ho! 

Flee  like  a  hounded  beast! 
For  the  Ship  of  the  Northwest  strikes  a  blow 

For  the  Ship  of  the  far  Northeast! 

In  quivering  joy  she  surged  ahead, 

Aflame  with  flashing  bars, 
Till  down  sunk  the  Spaniard's  gold  and  red 

And  up  ran  the  Clustered  Stars. 

"Glory  to  share?"     Aye,  and  to  spare; 

But  the  chiefest  is  hers  by  right 
Of  a  rush  of  fourteen  thousand  miles 

For  the  chance  of  a  bitter  fight! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  329 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  FLEET 

Two  fleets  have  sailed  from  Spain.     The  one  would  seek 

What  lands  uncharted  ocean  might  conceal. 
Despised,  condemned,  and  pitifully  weak, 

It  found  a  world  for  Leon  and  Castile. 
The  other,  mighty,  arrogant,  and  vain, 

Sought  to  subdue  a  people  who  were  free. 

Ask  of  the  storm-gods  where  its  galleons  be,  — 
Whelmed  'neath  the  billows  of  the  northern  main! 

A  third  is  threatened.     On  the  western  track, 
Once  gloriously  traced,  its  vessels  speed, 

With  gold  and  crimson  battle-flags  unfurled, 
On  Colon's  course,  but  to  Sidonia's  wrack, 
Sure  fated,  if  so  need  shall  come  to  need, 

For  Sons  of  Drake  are  lords  of  Colon's  world. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SPANISH  MAIN 

OUT  in  the  south,  when  the  day  is  done, 

And  the  gathered  winds  go  free, 
Where  golden-sanded  rivers  run, 
Fair  islands  fade  in  the  sinking  sun, 
And  the  great  ships  stagger,  one  by  one, 

Up  from  the  windy  sea. 

Out  in  the  south,  when  a  twilight  shroud 

Hangs  over  the  ocean's  rim, 
Sail  on  sail,  like  floating  cloud, 
Galleon,  brigantine,  cannon-browed, 
Rich  from  the  Indies,  homeward  crowd, 

Singing  a  Spanish  hymn. 

Out  in  the  south,  when  the  sun  has  set 

And  her  lightning  flickers  pale, 
The  cannon  bellow  their  deadly  threat, 
The  ships  grind,  all  in  a  crimson  sweat, 
And  hoarse  throats  call,  "Have  you  stricken  yet?" 

Across  the  quarter-rail. 

Out  in  the  south,  in  the  dead  of  night, 

When  I  hear  the  thunder  speak, 
'T  is  the  Englishmen  in  their  pride  and  might, 
Mad  with  glory  and  blind  with  fight, 
Locked  with  the  Spaniards,  left  and  right, 

Fighting  them  cheek  and  cheek; 


330-  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Out  in  the  south,  when  the  dawn's  pale  light 

Walks  cold  on  the  beaten  shore, 
And  the  mists  of  night  like  clouds  of  fight, 
Silvery  violet,  blinding  bright, 
Drift  in  glory  from  height  to  height 

Where  the  white-tailed  eagles  soar; 

There  comes  a  song  through  the  salt  and  spray, 

Blood-kin  to  the  ocean's  roar; 
"All  day  long  down  Florez  way 
Richard  Grenville  stands  at  bay. 
Come  and  take  him  if  ye  may!" 

Then,  hush,  forevermore. 

JOHN  BENNETT. 

OUR  SOLDIERS'  SONG 

When  the  destruction  of  Cervera's  fleet  became  known  before 
Santiago,  the  soldiers  cheered  wildly,  and,  with  one  accord,  through 
miles  of  trenches,  began  singing  "  The  Star  Spangled  Banner." 

SINGING  "The  Star  Spanged  Banner" 

In  the  very  jaws  of  death! 
Singing  our  glorious  anthem, 

Some  with  their  latest  breath! 
The  strains  of  that  solemn  music 

Through  the  spirit  will  ever  roll, 
Thrilling  with  martial  ardor 

The  depths  of  each  patriot  soul. 

Hearing  the  hum  of  the  bullets! 

Eager  to  charge  the  foe! 
Biding  the  call  to  battle, 

Where  crimson  heart  streams  flow! 
Thinking  of  home  and  dear  ones, 

Of  mother,  of  child,  of  wife, 
They  sang  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner" 

On  that  field  of  deadly  strife. 

They  sang  with  the  voices  of  heroes, 

In  the  face  of  Spanish  guns, 
As  they  leaned  on  their  loaded  rifles, 

With  the  courage  that  never  runs. 
They  sang  to  our  glorious  emblem, 

Upraised  on  that  war-worn  sod, 
As  the  saints  in  the  old  arena 

Sang  a  song  of  praise  to  God. 

DAVID  GRAHAM  ADEE. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  331 

CALL   TO  THE  COLORS 

"ARE  you  ready,  O  Virginia, 

Alabama,  Tennessee? 
People  of  the  Southland,  answer! 

For  the  land  hath  need  of  ye. " 
"Here!"  from  sandy  Rio  Grande, 

Where  the  Texan  horsemen  ride; 
"Here!"  the  hunters  of  Kentucky 

Hail  from  Chatterawah's  side; 
Every  toiler  in  the  cotton, 

Every  ragged  mountaineer, 
Velvet-voiced  and  iron-handed, 

Lifts  his  voice  to  answer  "Here!" 
Some  remain  who  charged  with  Pickett, 

Some  survive  who  followed  Lee; 
They  shall  lead  their  sons  to  battle 

For  the  flag,  if  need  there  be. 

"Are  you  ready,  California, 

Arizona,  Idaho? 
'Come,  oh,  come,  unto  the  colors!' 

Heard  you  not  the  bugle  blow!" 
Falls  a  hush  in  San  Francisco 

In  the  busy  hives  of  trade; 
In  the  vineyards  of  Sonoma 

Fall  the  pruning  knife  and  spade; 
In  the  mines  of  Colorado 

Pick  and  drill  are  thrown  aside; 
Idly  in  Seattle  harbor 

Swing  the  merchants  to  the  tide; 
And  a  million  mighty  voices 

Throb  responsive  like  a  drum, 
Rolling  from  the  rough  Sierras, 

"You  have  called  us,  and  we  come." 

O'er  Missouri  sounds  the  challenge  — 

O'er  the  great  lakes  and  the  plain; 
"Are  you  ready,  Minnesota? 

Are  you  ready,  men  of  Maine?" 
From  the  woods  of  Ontonagon, 

From  the*farms  of  Illinois, 
From  the  looms  of  Massachusetts, 

"We  are  ready,  man  and  boy." 
Axemen  free,  of  Androscoggin, 

Clerks  who  trudge  the  cities'  paves, 
Gloucester  men  who  drag  their  plunder 

From  the  sullen,  hungry  waves, 


332  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Big-boned  Swede  and  large-limbed  German, 

Celt  and  Saxon  swell  the  call, 
And  the  Adirondacks  echo: 

"We  are  ready,  one  and  all." 

Truce  to  feud  and  peace  to  faction! 

Hushed  is  every  party  brawl, 
When  the  warships  clear  for  action, 

When  the  battle-bugles  call. 
Europe  boasts  her  standing  armies,  — 

Serfs  who  blindly  fight  by  trade; 
We  have  seven  million  soldiers, 

And  a  soul  guides  every  blade. 
Laborers  with  arm  and  mattock, 

Laborers  with  brain  and  pen, 
Railroad  prince  and  railroad  brakemen, 

Build  our  line  of  fighting  men. 
Flag  of  righteous  wars!  close  mustered 

Gleam  the  bayonets,  row  on  row, 
Where  thy  stars  are  sternly  clustered, 

With  their  daggers  toward  the  foe! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN. 

TO  THE  MODERN  BATTLESHIP 

OH,  men  have  fought  with  arrows, 

And  men  have  fought  with  swords, 
And  the  deadly  spit  from  the  musket's  mouth 

Has  withered  its  countless  hordes. 
But  not  for  these  would  I  sing  a  song, 

Nor  raise  the  glass  to  my  lip. 
Stand  up!     Now  all!     I  pledge  a  health 

To  the  modern  battleship! 

Here  's  to  the  graceful  battleship, 

Beautiful  in  her  strength, 
As  she  lies  at  rest  on  the  harbor's  breast, 

Swinging  an  idle  length; 
A  giantess  slumbering  the  hour  away, 

A  tigress  at  rest  in  her  den; 
At  rest  till  the  word  of  the  order  is  heard, 

"Go,  shatter  the  works  of  men." 

Here  's  to  the  deadly  battleship, 

Terrible  in  the  fight; 
With  each  dragon's  breath  see  her  belch  forth  death, 

Glorying  in  her  might. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  333 

Her  eye  is  keen  for  an  enemy's  hull, 

And  she  misses  never  a  one, 
Till  each  finds  its  grave  in  the  shuddering  wave 

To  the  knell  of  a  twelve-inch  gun. 

Then  here  's  to  the  laurelled  battleship, 

Conqueror  over  all; 
We  may  safely  sleep  while  she  rides  the  deep, 

Ready  at  danger's  call. 
We  have  tried  her  again  and  we  know  she  's  true, 

And  we  '11  trust  her  another  trip. 
Her  health  first,  boys,  and  then,  with  a  noise, 

Three  cheers  for  the  battleship! 

ROBERT  JAMES. 


AT  LAST 

GAZE  through  the  opal  mist  across  the  main 
On  ancient  walls  that  rear  their  grandeur  high 
Unto  the  kiss  of  a  Castilian  sky. 

Golden  the  glory  of  that  storied  Spain, 

Heavy  with  conquest  and  its  dazzling  gain; 
Valiant  the  pride  that  only  dared  to  die 
For  honor's  sake  —  never  to  question  why; 

Mighty  her  prowess,  its  resistance  vain. 

Gaze  yet  again  through  sulph'rous  mist  and  fire, 
Another  Spain  yields  up  her  helpless  wrecks 

Of  stubborn  pride  to  Freedom's  last  desire. 
No  tyrant  heel  again  shall  tread  their  decks, 

And  as  they  moulder  on  surrendered  strands 

Spain's  castles  crumble  into  desert  sands. 

GEORGE  E.  BOWEN. 

THE  MEN  BEHIND   THE  GUNS 

A  CHEER  and  salute  for  the  admiral,  and  here  's  to  the  captain 
bold, 

And  never  forget  the  commodore's  debt  when  the  deeds  of  might 
are  told! 

They  stand  to  the  deck  through  the  battle's  wreck,  when  the 
great  shells  roar  and  screech  — 

And  never  they  fear  when  the  foe  is  near  to  practise  what  they 
preach ; 

But  off  with  your  hat  and  three  times  three  for  Columbia's  true- 
blue  sons,  — 

The  men  below  who  batter  the  foe  —  the  men  behind  the  guns! 


334  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Oh,  light  and  merry  of  heart  are  they  when  they  swing  into  port 

once  more, 
When,  with  more  than  enough  of  the  "green-backed  stuff,"  they 

start  for  their  leave-o'-shore; 
And  you  'd  think,  perhaps,  that  the  blue-bloused  chaps  who  loll 

along  the  street 

Are  a  tender  bit,  with  salt  on  it,  for  some  "mustache"  to  eat  — 
Some  warrior  bold,  with  straps  of  gold,  who  dazzles  and  fairly 

stuns 
The  modest  worth  of  the  sailor  boys,  —  the  lads  who  serve  the 

guns. 

But  say  not  a  word  till  a  shot  is  heard  that  tells  the  fight  is  on, 
Till  the  long  deep  roar  grows  more  and  more  from  the  ships 

of  "Yank"  and  "Don," 

Till  over  the  deep  the  tempests  sweep  of  fire  and  bursting  shell, 
And  the  very  air  is  a  mad  despair  in  the  throes  of  a  living  hell; 
Then  down,  deep  down,  in  the  mighty  ship,  unseen  by  the  mid 
day  suns, 

You  '11  find  the  chaps  who  are  giving  the  raps,  —  the  men  behind 
the  guns! 

O,  well  they  know  how  the  cyclones  blow  that  they  loose  from 

their  cloud  of  wrath, 
And  they  know  is  heard  the  thunder-word  their  fierce  ten-inchers 

saith! 
The  steel  decks  rock  with  the  lightning  shock,  and  shake  with 

the  great  recoil, 
And  the  sea  grows  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead  and  reaches 

for  its  spoil,  — 

But  not  till  the  foe  has  gone  below,  or  turns  his  prow  and  runs, 
Shall  the  voice  of  peace  bring  sweet  release  to  the  men  behind 

the  guns! 

JOHN  J.  ROONEY. 

THE  MAN  WHO  COOKS   THE  GRUB 

WE  have  read  in  song  and  story 

Of  "the  man  behind  the  gun," 
He  is  given  all  the  glory 

Of  the  battles  that  are  won; 
They  are  filling  up  the  papers 

With  his  apotheosis 
And  they  tell  about  his  capers 

While  the  shells  above  him  hiss; 
But  behind  the  grimy  gunner, 

Steadfast  through  the  wild  hubbub, 
Stands  the  greater  god  of  battles  — 

'T  is  the  man  who  cooks  the  grub. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY          335 

When  the  sky  is  rent  with  thunder 

And  the  shell  screams  through  the  air, 
When  some  fort  is  rent  asunder 

And  Destruction  revels  there, 
When  the  men  in  line  go  rushing 

On  to  glory  or  to  woe 
With  the  maddened  charges  crushing 

Heroes  who  are  lying  low, 
There  is  one  but  for  whose  labors 

There  could  be  no  wild  hubbub, 
And  the  greatest  god  of  battles 

Is  the  man  who  cooks  the  grub. 

What  of  ships  with  armor  plating? 

What  of  castles  on  the  heights? 
What  of  anxious  captains  waiting 

While  the  careful  gunner  sights? 
What  of  all  the  long-range  rifles? 

What  of  men  with  valiant  hearts? 
These  were  but  impotent  trifles, 

But  inconsequential  parts 
Of  the  whole,  without  the  fellow 

Who  must  scour,  scrape,  and  scrub  — 
For  the  greatest  god  of  battles 

Is  the  man  who  cooks  the  grub. 

S.  E.  RISER. 

THE   YANKEE  DUDE  'LL   DO 

WHEN  Cholly  swung  his  golf  stick  on  the  links, 

Or  knocked  the  tennis  ball  across  the  net, 
With  his  bangs  done  up  in  cunning  little  kinks  — 
When  he  wore  the  tallest  collar  he  could  get, 

O,  it  was  the  fashion  then 

To  impale  him  on  the  pen  — 
To  regard  him  as  a  being  made  of  putty  through  and  through; 

But  his  racquet's  laid  away, 

He  is  roughing  it  to-day, 
And  heroically  proving  that  the  Yankee  dude  '11  do 

When  Algy,  as  some  knight  of  old  arrayed, 

Was  the  leading  figure  at  the  "fawncy  ball," 
We  loathed  him  for  the  silly  part  he  played; 

He  was  set  down  as  a  monkey  —  that  was  all!  % 

O,  we  looked  upon  him  then 
As  unfit  to  class  with  men  — 

As  one  whose  heart  was  putty  and  whose  brains  were  made  of 
glue; 


336  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

But  he  's  thrown  his  cane  away, 
And  he  grasps  a  gun  to-day, 

While  the  world  beholds  him,  knowing  what  the  Yankee  dude  '11 
do. 

When  Clarence  cruised  about  upon  his  yacht, 
Or  drove  out  with  his  footman  in  the  park, 
His  mamma,  it  was  generally  thought, 

Ought  to  have  him  in  her  keeping  after  dark! 

O,  we  ridiculed  him  then, 

We  impaled  him  on  the  pen, 
We  thought  he  was  effeminate,  we  dubbed  him  "Sissy,"  too; 

But  he  nobly  marched  away, 

He  is  eating  pork  to-day, 
And  heroically  proving  that  the  Yankee  dude  '11  do. 

How  they  hurled  themselves  against  the  angry  foe 

In  the  jungle  and  the  trenches  on  the  hill! 
When  the  word  to  charge  was  given  every  dude  was  on  the 

go  — 

He  was  there  to  die,  to  capture,  or  to  kill! 
O,  he  struck  his  level  when 
Men  were  called  upon  again 

To  preserve  the  ancient  glory  of  the  old  red,  white,  and  blue! 
He  has  thrown  his  spats  away, 
He  is  wearing  spurs  to-day, 

And  the  world  will  please  take  notice  that  the  Yankee  dude  '11 
do! 

S.  E.  KISEB. 

THE  STALKING  OF  THE  SEA   WOLVES 

THEY  had  come  from  out  of  the  East 

To  ravage  and  burn  and  kill, 
And  they  stopped  for  a  moment  to  rest  and  wait 

In  a  landlocked  harbor  still. 
But  a  grim  sea  dog  there  was 

Who  had  stalked  them  through  spray  and  foam: 
And  he  came,  and  he  looked,  and  he  smiled,  and  said: 

"They  '11  never  get  home!" 

Then  another  old  sea  dog  came, 

And  they  sat  them  down  to  wait, 
Untiring,  stern,  through  long,  dry  days, 

At  the  harbor's  frowning  gate. 
Under  the  hot,  fierce  sun, 

Under  the  still,  blue  dome, 
The  sea  dogs  waited,  and  watched,  and  growled: 

"They  '11  never  get  home!" 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND   HISTORY  337 

And  the  wolves  came  forth  at  last, 

And  the  grim  sea  dogs  closed  in, 
And  the  battle  was  won,  and  the  Old  Flag  waved 

Where  the  banner  of  Spain  had  been. 
The  colors  of  blood  and  gold 

Sank  deep  in  the  churning  foam, 
And  the  sea  dogs  growled:  "  We  have  kept  our  word; 

They  '11  never  get  home!" 

Cheers  for  the  vow  well  kept! 

To  the  sea  dogs  twain  a  toast! 
From  our  land's  birth-throes  have  our  sea  dogs  been 

Our  glory,  pride,  and  boast. 
Whatever  our  perils  be 

In  the  unseen  years  to  come, 
Our  trust  is  in  men  like  the  man  who  said: 

"They  '11  never  get  home!" 

CHARLES  W.  THOMPSON. 

PORTO  RICO 

OH,  the  soft  blue  waves  of  the  southern  sea 

Are  laughing  beneath  the  stars, 
And  the  moonlight  whitens  the  shining  sands 

Tossed  upon  the  coral  bars; 
But  the  sentry  shivers  with  righteous  dread, 

As  he  stands  in  the  frowning  tower 
And  measures  the  time,  as  the  night  wears  on, 

With  the  wasting  of  Spanish  power. 

And  the  soft  blue  waves  of  the  southern  sea 

Laugh  merrily  as  they  feel 
The  throbbing  caress  of  a  swift  young  fleet 

And  the  force  of  its  arms  of  steel; 
But  the  quivering  form  of  the  sentry  sways 

In  the  grip  of  the  mighty  fear, 
And  the  frowning  granite  grows  ashen  gray 

As  the  hurrying  morn  draws  near. 

Oh,  the  soft  blue  waves  of  the  southern  sea 

Are  flashing  with  glad,  white  stars 
That  are  dashing  their  luminous  purity 

O'er  silver  and  crimson  bars; 
And  the  sentry  reads  on  the  rising  tide, 

As  it  lashes  the  groaning  walls, 
The  message  of  angered  Destiny, 

Condemning  the  pride  that  falls. 


338  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

And  the  soft  blue  waves  of  the  southern  sun 

Shall  reach,  with  their  kind  embrace, 
And  wash  from  the  ruins  of  tyranny 

Forever  each  cruel  trace. 
And  the  sentry  —  gone  from  his  ghastly  watch  — 

In  penitent  dreams  shall  see 
The  flowers  of  freedom  enwreathing  the  isle 

That  is  what  it  seems  to  be. 

GEORGE  E.  BOWEN. 

BILL  SWEENY  OF   THE  BLACK  GANG 

The   "Black  Gang"    is    the  fire-room  force  — firemen,  oilers, 
water-tenders,  coal-passers,  and  so  on.<K**«**t"£ 

THER  's  a  feller  in  the  Black  Gang 

Aboard  the  Ampertrite; 
Bill  Sweeny  is  the  feller's  name, 

You  can  bet  that  Bill  's  all  right. 
He  's  seen  a  heap  o'  the  world,  has  Bill, 

He  's  fired  all  there  is  to  fire, 
From  a  lime-juicer  tramp 
To  a  brand-new  Cramp 

With  a  stack  like  Trinity  spire. 

Bill  Sweeny  is  a  feller 

With  stars  agin  his  name; 
But  Bill  he  gets  his  liberty 

When  any  gets  the  same. 
He  stands  right  in  with  them  all,  does  Bill, 

And  they  lets  him  go  ashore, 
Though  he  'd  smuggle  a  swig 
To  a  lad  in  the  brig 

And  he  's  sure  to  smuggle  in  more. 

Bill  Sweeny  is  a  feller 

You  won't  back  on  his  looks, 
He  's  pitted  up  with  small-pox 

And  he  ain't  much  read  in  books; 
But  he  's  got  a  laugh  that  you  like,  has  Bill, 

(I  likes  to  hear  him  laught,) 
No  matter  where, 
You  can  swear  Bill 's  there, 

Consumin'  his  own  forced  draught. 

Bill  Sweeny  is  the  feller 

When  the  starboard  engine's  broke, 

He  stays  below  in  the  scalding  steam 
Where  a  man  was  like  to  choke; 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  339 

And  he  dodges  the  flying  cranks,  does  Bill, 

And  he  climbs  past  that  hammerin'  rod; 
The  rest  all  run, 
But  that  son-of-a-gun 

He  shuts  her  off,  b'  God! 

Bill  Sweeny  is  the  bully  lad 

I  likes  to  see  around. 
I  'd  rise  to  take  a  drink  with  Bill 

Though  six  foot  under  ground. 
But  Bill,  he  's  soft  as  a  goil,  is  Bill, 

I  mind  the  night  he  cried, 
When  he  come  away 
From  that  hot  sick  bay, 

And  told  us  old  Tom  had  died. 


Bill  Sweeny  is  a  fighter 

Of  the  rough  and  tumble  kind, 
He  laughts  when  he  fights,  but  he  shows  his  teeth, 

I've  seen  him  at  it,  mind; 
He  was  one  of  the  Baltimore's  crew,  was  Bill, 

When  we  had  the  row  down  there. 
Valparaiso?     Say! 
Don't  ferget  that  day, 

Weren't  Bill  in  thet  fight  for  fair? 

Say!     Did  y'  hear  Bill  Sweeny? 

He  says  one  night,  says  he : 
"I've  got  a  chanst  for  a  good  land  job, 
But  I  guess  I  '11  stick  to  the  sea. 
I  knows  meself  and  me  work,"  says  Bill, 

"And  I 'm  going  to  sign  once  more  — 
I  'm  safe  all  right 
On  the  Ampertrite, 

AndjTm  all  at  sea,  ashore." 

Bill  Sweeny  of  the  Black  Gang  — 

He  's  a  first-class  fireman  now, 
He  entered  water-tender  — 

But  if  we  had  a  row, 
We  lads  at  the  guns  has  a  chanst  —  but  Bill 

And  the  Jacks  o'  the  Dust  below, 
A-feedin'  the  flame, 
Fights  just  the  same  — 

If  they  don't  —  say!  —  I'd  like  to  know! 

JAMES  BARNES. 


340  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

A   MOTHER  OF  '98 

MY  gallant  love  goes  out  to-day, 
With  drums  and  bugles  sounding  gay; 
I  smile  to  cheer  him  on  his  way  — 

Smile  back,  my  heart,  to  me! 
The  flags  are  glittering  in  the  light; 
Is  it  their  stars  that  blind  my  sight? 
God,  hold  my  tears  until  to-night  — 

Then  set  their  fountains  free! 

He  takes  with  him  the  light  of  May; 

Alas!  it  seems  but  yesterday 

He  was  a  bright-haired  child  at  play, 

With  eyes  that  knew  no  fear; 
Blue  eyes  —  true  eyes!     I  see  them  shine 
Far  down  along  the  waving  line  — 
Now  meet  them  bravely,  eyes  of  mine! 

Good  cheer,  my  love,  good  cheer! 

Oh,  mother-hearts,  that  dare  not  break! 
That  feel  the  stress,  the  long,  long  ache, 
The  tears  that  burn,  the  eyes  that  wake, 

For  these  our  cherished  ones  — 
And  ye,  true  hearts  —  not  called  to  bear 
Such  pain  and  peril  for  your  share  — 
Oh,  lift  with  me  the  pleading  prayer, 

God  save  our  gallant  sons! 

MARION  COUTHOUY  SMITH. 

THE  ABSENT  BOY 

THEY  miss  him  in  the  orchard,  where  the  fruit  is  sunning  over, 
And  in  the  meadow  where  the  air  is  sweet  with  new-mown  hay, 

And  all  about  the  old  farm  which  knew  him  for  a  lover, 
From  the  early  seedtime  onward  till  the  crops  were  piled  away. 

They  miss  him  in  the  village  where  nothing  went  without  him, 
Where  to-day  the  young  folks'  parties  are  dull  and  incomplete. 

They  cannot  just  explain  it,  there  was  such  a  charm  about  him, 
The  drop  of  cheer  he  always  brought  made  common  daylight 
sweet. 

And  now  he  's  gone  to  Cuba,  he  'a  righting  for  the  nation, 
He  's  charging  with  the  others,  a  lad  in  army  blue. 

His  name  is  little  known  yet,  but  at  the  upland  station 

They  all  are  sure  you  '11  hear  it  before  the  war  is  through. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  341 

And  when  you  talk  of  battles,  and  scan  the  printed  column, 
His  regiment 's  the  one  they  seek,  his  neighbors  think  and 

care; 
The  more  they  do  not  speak  of  it  their  look  grows  grave  and 

solemn, 

For  somewhere  in  the  thick  of  strife  they  know  their  boy  is 
there 

MARGARET  SANGSTER. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE 

HE  offered  himself  for  the  land  he  loved, 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  her? 
He  gave  to  his  country  a  soldier's  life; 
'T  was  dearer  by  far  to  the  soldier's  wife. 

All  honor  to-day  to  her! 

He  went  to  the  war  while  his  blood  was  hot, 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  her? 
He  saw  for  himself  through  the  battle's  flame 
A  hero's  reward  on  the  scroll  of  fame; 

What  honor  is  due  to  her? 

He  offered  himself,  but  his  wife  did  more, 

All  honor  to-day  to  her! 
For  dearer  than  life  was  the  gift  she  gave 
In  giving  the  life  she  would  die  to  save; 

What  honor  is  due  to  her? 

He  gave  up  his  life  at  his  country's  call, 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  her? 
He  offered  himself  as  a  sacrifice, 
But  she  is  the  one  who  pays  the  price; 

All  honor  we  owe  to  her. 

ELLIOTT  FLOWER. 

THE  PRICE  WE  PAY 

YES,  he  was  the  only  one  killed  — 

Not  a  battle,  of  course,  with  only  one  dead  — 

But  that  one  was  my  all. 

And  the  pages  were  blurred  as  I  read, 

"Killed  at  the  front,  Tom  Burton"; 

One  man,  "not  much  of  a  loss,"  it  said, 

But  't  was  all  that  I  had, 

And  more  than  they  knew 

When  they  buried  my  hope  with  my  dead, 


342  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

In  his  blood-stained  battle  shroud. 

Died  that  his  country  might  live, 

That  a  people  oppressed  might  be  free. 

It  made  him  a  hero,  you  say; 

Perhaps,  but  he  was  always  a  hero  to  me, 

For  I  knew  him  and  loved  him. 

Dead,  dead,  now  at  the  front, 

And  he  was  only  a  lad. 

Only  one  life  for  a  victory, 

But  that  life  was  all  that  I  had. 

J.  H.  STEVENS. 

RETURNED  FROM   THE  WARS 

MY  pa  'a  a  great  Rough  Rider, 

He  was  one  of  Teddy's  men, 
And  he  fought  before  El  Caney 

In  the  trenches  and  the  fen. 
He  came  home  sore  and  wounded, 

And  I  wish  you  'd  see  him  eat; 
He  's  got  an  appetite,  I  guess, 

Is  pretty  hard  to  beat. 

It 's  eat,  and  eat,  and  eat, 

And  it 's  sleep,  and  sleep,  and  sleep, 
For  ma  won't  let  us  make  no  noise, 

And  so  we  creep  and  creep. 
Oh,  we  bade  him  welcome  home, 

And  we  're  glad  he  was  n't  killed  — 
But,  gee!  he  's  got  an  appetite 

That  never  will  be  filled. 

My  pa  was  in  the  racket, 

He  heard  the  Mauser's  ring, 
And  he  says  there  's  something  awful 

In  the  music  of  their  ping. 
He  fought  the  fight  with  Teddy, 

But  he  's  glad  he  's  home  again 
From  the  trenches  and  the  trochas, 

From  the  hills  and  from  the  fen. 

But  it 's  eat,  eat,  eat, 

And  it 's  sleep,  sleep,  sleep; 
He  's  kind  o'  stricken  hungry 

With  an  awful  sort  of  sweep. 
But  we  're  glad  to  have  him  home, 

And  we  're  glad  he  was  n't  killed, 
But,  gee!  that  awful  appetite, 

It  never  will  be  filled. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  343 

He  says  he  caught  the  fever, 

And  he  had  the  ague,  too, 
And  he  kind  o'  got  the  homesicks, 

And  the  waitin'  made  him  blue. 
But  when  he  reached  the  station 

And  we  saw  him  from  the  gate 
We  were  the  happiest  family 

You  could  find  in  all  the  state. 

But  it 's  eat,  eat,  eat, 

And  it 's  sleep,  sleep,  sleep; 
His  hunger  is  abidin' 

And  it 's  lastin'  and  it 's  deep. 
For  he  lived  so  long  on  bacon, 

And  he  slept  so  long  on  mud, 
I  guess  it  'a  kind  o'  filled  him 

Full  o'  hungry,  sleepy  blood. 

My  pa  's  come  home  from  fighting, 

Which  he  says  was  mighty  hot; 
And  we  're  glad  to  have  him  home  again, 

And  glad  he  was  n't  shot. 
My  pa  's  a  great  Rough  Rider, 

And  he  helped  to  hold  the  line 
When  the  Mauser  balls  were  leapin' 

From  'most  every  tree  and  vine. 

But  it 's  eat,  eat,  eat, 

Since  he  came  home  to  stay; 
And  it 's  sleep,  sleep,  sleep, — 

Bet  he  '11  sleep  hisself  away! 
But  we  're  happy  that  he  came. 

And  we  're  glad  he  wasn't  killed, 
But,  gee!  that  awful  appetite, 

It  never  will  be  filled. 

ANONYMOUS. 

JIM 

I  HEAR  the  drum  roll,  rub-a-dub,  dub 

And  the  piccolo's  shrill  refrain; 
The  boys  in  blue  with  hearts  so  true 

Are  marching  home  again. 
I  hear  the  drum,  but  it  beats  for  me 

Despair  and  grief's  tattoo; 
I  'd  be  so  glad  if  our  only  lad  — 

Our  Jim  —  poor  Jim  —  marched  too! 


344  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

I  hear  the  tramp,  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 

Of  the  army  marching  by; 
Brave  soldiers  all,  at  their  country's  call 

They  went  to  fight  and  die. 
Their  task  is  done,  with  heads  erect 

They  pass  there  in  review; 
Instead  of  tears  I  'd  give  them  cheers 

If  Jim  —  poor  Jim  —  marched,  too! 

I  hear  the  clank,  the  clank,  clank,  clank 

Of  the  swords  of  captains  gay; 
But  my  worn  eyes  rest  on  the  blood-stained  crest 

Of  a  hill  far,  far  away. 
They  left  him  there  where  the  weeping  winds 

Sing  dirges  faint  and  few  — 
They  're  home  —  God's  light!     How  grand  the  sight 

If  Jim  —  poor  Jim  —  marched,  too! 

GEORGE  V.  HOBABT. 

FROM  BIRTH   TO  BATTLEFIELD 

A  CHILD  is  born  —  it  gasps  and  cries, 
And  claps  its  wee  fists  to  its  eyes; 
It  stares  at  those  who  stand  around, 

And  sleeps,  a  stranger  unto  care, 
While  she  that  smiles  o'er  joys  new-found, 

Prays  for  him  ere  he  needs  for  prayer. 

A  hundred  childish  ills  he  worries  through, 
A  thousand  times  his  life  hangs  by  a  thread; 

He  falls,  when  there  is  nothing  else  to  do, 

From  some  high  perch  and  strikes  upon  his  head  — 

Ah,  who  shall  say  God  keeps  him  not  in  sight, 

Nor  hears  the  prayers  she  offers  up  at  night? 

Toil  and  hope  and  despair, 

Grieving  and  doubting  and  joy; 
Days  that  were  dark  and  days  that  were  fair 

For  those  who  love  the  boy; 
Years  that  have  wearily  dragged, 
Years  that  have  flown  and  griefs  that  have  lagged— lagged 

To  make  him  a  man  at  last. 

Hark  to  the  summons  that  comes! 
Hear  the  merciless  roll  of  the  drums! 

The  man  for  whom  plans  were  made, 

He  for  whom  schemes  were  laid, 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY          345 

Must  brush  them  aside,  for  somewhere 
Somebody  has  wronged  someone  — 

Let  the  banners  wave  high  in  the  air, 
There  is  soul-stirring  work  to  be  done! 

Down  through  the  valley  and  over  the  slope, 

A  regiment  sweeps  to  the  fray! 
What  of  the  prayers,  the  toil,  the  hope, 
And  the  lofty  plans  of  yesterday? 
An  angry  shot, 
A  crimson  clot, 
And  the  smiles  and  tears 
Of  twenty  years 
End  in  a  lump  of  lifeless  clay. 

ANONYMOUS. 
A   WAR  ECHO 

WAKE  up  early,  chillun! 

Day  is  long  and  bright; 
Sun  is  workin'  overtime 

To  give  us  lots  o'  light. 
So'jers  is  a  fightin' 

An'  we  must  n't  stop  to  play, 
Ev'ry  minute  's  precious, 

'Ca  'se  we  got  dat  tax  to  pay. 

Bees  is  makin'  honey 

An'  de  hoss  he  pull  de  plough. 
De  corn  's  a-raisin'  tassels 

Jes'  as  fast  as  it  knows  how. 
De  pigs  is  eatin'  faster 

An'  de  hens  is  cacklin'  gay, 
Am'  no  time  foh  loafin', 

'Ca'se  we  got  dat  tax  to  pay. 

ANONYMOUS. 

TELLING  THEM  OF  TAMPA 

WEARY  months  I've  spent  in  Tampa,  where  the  luscious  hard 
tack  grows; 

'T  is  a  wondrous  fruit,  dear  sister,  which  fact  every  soldier  knows. 

And  it  grows  —  please  pass  the  butter!  —  grows  in  Tampa  as  I 
said  — 

Sister!  just  a  few  potatoes!     Mother,  won't  you  pass  the  bread! 

Tell  you  all  about  our  camp  life?     Certainly  —  please  pass  the 

bread! 
Well,  we  got  up  in  the  morning  and  at  night  we  went  to  bed. 


346  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Then,  sometimes,  we  —  Sister!  help  me  to  another  piece  of  steak! 
Yes,  and  then,  again,  we  —  Mother!  what  fine  gravy  you  can 
make! 

Did  we  have  good  meals  at  Tampa?  Yes,  indeedy  —  in  a  horn! 
Best  the  land  afforded  —  Sister!  give  me  one  more  ear  of  corn! 
Meals  down  there  were  so  delightful  that  I  —  Mother!  pour  the 

tea! 
So  delightful  that  —  Say,  sister!  is  that  succotash  I  see? 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  camp  life  is  —  Say,  sister!  pass  the  slaw! 
Camp  life  is  —  Say,  mother!  just  a  bit  more  steak  —  er  — 

medium  raw! 

To  go  back  to  camp  life  —  Will  I  have  some  chicken  salad,  say! 
Will  I?  Well,  you  try  me!  Sister!  won't  you  pass  the  bread 

this  way! 

Down  at  Tampa  —  what 's  that,  mother?     Did  I  hear  you  men 
tion  pie? 

Ice  cream,  too!  and  apple  dumplin's! —  this  must  be  heaven  in 
the  sky! 

Down  to  Tampa  —  easy,  mother!  just  two  lumps  is  all  I  take! 

Down  at  —  O!  confound    old  Tampa.     Sister!  won't  you  pass 
the  cake! 

ANONYMOUS. 

MULVANEY  AND  ANOTHER 

MARY  ANN  swabbed  down  the  stairs 
With  a  cold,  wet  rag 
And  a  tired  drag 

Of  the  arms  and  feet,  so  tired 
And  a  face  so  hot  and  fired 
With  the  pent-up,  burning  tears. 

For  her  beau  was  a  soldier  man; 
A  private,  he, 
In  the  cavalry, 

Of  the  common  name,  Mulvaney, 
His  address  it  was  "El  Caney, 
On  the  fighting  line,"  it  ran. 

Mary  Ann  poured  out  her  woe 
As  she  swabbed  the  stairs 
With  her  salty  tears, 
And  her  mistress  inside 
As  bitterly  cried 
For  a  brave  lad  killed  by  the  foe. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY          347 

For  her  boy  was  a  soldier  man; 
Whatever  his  name 
The  cause  was  the  same, 

Yes,  the  same  as  the  cause  of  Mulvaney. 
He  had  died  by  the  side  at  El  Caney 
Of  him  who  had  loved  Mary  Ann. 

JOHN  A.  MOROSO. 

IN  DE  M  AWN  IN' 

DE  good  Lawd  hide  me  out  er  sight, 
Fer  dey  got  a  ship  th'ows  dynamite, 
En  blows  you  up  lak  a  streak  er  light; 
En  der  war  won't  end  in  de  mawnin' ! 

De  good  Lawd  keep  me  day  an  night 
Fum  de  ship  dat  comes  wid  de  dynamite, 
Or  I  '11  go  ter  glory  on  a  streak  er  light, 
En  de  war  won't  end  in  de  mawnin' ! 

ANONYMOUS. 

FIGURING  IT  ALL   UP 

THE  Captain  strode  the  quarter  deck; 

The  crews  were  at  the  guns; 
The  powder  flames  leaped  fiercely  out, 

Like  as  the  lightning  runs. 
Afar  the  fortress  rose,  all  grim, 

And  bellowed  in  reply, 
Till  smoke  and  fire  and  thunder  sound 
Shook  both  the  sea  and  sky. 
And  the  Captain  took 
His  little  book, 

And  figured  away,  while  his  fingers  shook: 
"2  into  10  goes  16  times, 

And  the  square  of  12  is  4; 
79  is  the  cube  of  6, 

And  my  deck  is  wet  with  gore. 
53  is  the  G.  C.  D., 

And  7  plus  2  is  5  — 

And  my  ship  is  shot  to  a  battered  hulk, 
And  I  have  n't  a  man  alive!" 

The  other  Captain,  in  the  fort, 

Stood  sadly  on  parade; 
The  gatlings,  siege,  and  other  guns 

A  fearsome  racket  made. 
They  boomed  across  the  troubled  waves, 

Against  the  swooping  ships, 


348  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

And  as  their  echoes  thrilled  the  air 
The  Captain  bit  his  lips. 

And  he  also  took 

His  little  book, 

And  figured  it  out  with  a  worried  look: 
"6  per  cent  of  a  dozen  men, 

And  the  sine  of  18  more, 
All  bisected  by  25, 

And  the  arc  of  34; 
3  plus  8,  to  the  decimal, 

And  the  tare  and  tret,"  he  said, 
"  Combined  with  the  subdivided  sum, 

Shows  all  my  men  are  dead." 

Thus  each  side  lost  and  each  side  won, 

And  each  side  fought  the  fray, 
And  now  they  're  figuring  upon 

The  powder  bills  to  pay. 
Grim  war  is  awful,  at  its  best, 

But  who  will  lose  or  lick 
If  he  relies  entirely  on 

The  old  arithmetic? 

ANONYMOUS. 
OUR  NEW  HEROES 

THEY  VE  half  inch  thick  of  tan  upon  their  faces, 

And  some  of  them  have  freckles  on  their  toes, 
They  Ve  scars  and  bandages  in  sundry  places 

As  proof  of  the  attentions  of  their  foes. 
There  are  some  who  really  ought  to  see  the  barber  — 

Their  tailors  surely  never  earned  their  pay  — 
But  we  'd  know  them  anywhere  as  our  new  heroes  — 

The  men  the  nation  honors  —  Hip,  hooray! 

Chorus 

They  're  coming  home  together 

To  meet  us  all  again, 
The  men  the  nation  honors, 

The  men  who  conquered  Spain; 
And  when  they  march  down  Broadway 

We  '11  tear  the  sky  with  cheers  — 
For  Army  and  for  Navy, 

And  gallant  volunteers. 

There  's  Dewey,  whom  Augustin  swore  to  murder, 
To  hang  upon  the  trees  with  all  his  men; 

But  Dewey  did  n't  understand  the  programme  — 
And  so  he  smashed  Montojo  in  his  den. 


WAR,    PEACE,   AND    HISTORY  349 

There  is  Hobson  earned  the  foeman's  admiration; 

He  bottled  up  poor  Cervera  so  tight 
That  when  the  Spaniard  fled  in  desperation 

He  had  to  make  his  dash  in  broad  daylight. 

Chorus.  —  They  're  coming  home,  &c. 

There  's  the  men  who  caught  the  Spanish  ships  escaping 

And  sent  them  all  to  Davy  Jones'  domain; 
He  kept  the  word  he  gave  when  first  he  saw  them  — 

"Not  one,"  he  said,  " would  e'er  get  back  to  Spain." 
There  's  Shafter  and  his  men  from  Santiago, 

They  drew  the  lines  so  close  about  the  town 
That  all  the  brave  defenders  there  surrendered 

And  twenty  thousand  stand  of  arms  laid  down. 

Chorus.  —  They  're  coming  home,  &c. 

SYDNEY  REID. 

THE  MAN  WHO  DOES   THE  CHEERING 

THIS  war  with  Spain  reminds  me  o'  the  Spring  o'  '61, 

About  the  time  or  jist  afore  the  Civil  War  begun; 

A  certain  class  o'  heroes  ain't  remembered  in  this  age, 

Yit  their  names  in  golden  letters  should  be  writ  on  history's 

page, 

Their  voices  urged  on  others  to  save  this  ol'  country's  fall; 
I  admit  they  never  listened  when  they  heerd  Abe  Lincoln  call; 
They  never  heerd  a  eagle  scream  er  heerd  a  rifle  crack, 
But  you  bet  they  done  the  cheerin' 
When 
the 

Troops 
Come 
Back. 

O'  course  it 's  glorious  to  fight  when  freedom  is  at  stake, 
I  'low  a  feller  likes  to  show  that  he  hez  helped  to  make 
Another  star  in  freedom's  sky  —  the  star  o'  Cuby  —  free! 
But  still  another  feelin'  creeps  along  o'  that  when  he 
Gits  to  thinkin'  o'  the  home  he  left  en'  seein'  it  at  night 
Dancin'  slowlike  up  aroun'  him  in  a  misty  maze  o'  light, 
En'  a-ketchin'  fleetin'  glimpses  of  a  crowd  along  the  track 
En'  the  man  who  does  the  cheerin' 
When 
the 

Troops 
Come 

Back. 


350  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

O'  course,  a  soldier  hez  got  feelin's,  en  his  heart  begins  to  beat 
Faster,  ez  ol'  Reckollection  leads  him  down  some  shady  street 
Where  he  knows  a  gal 's  a-waitin'  underneath  a  creepin'  vine, 
Where  the  sun  is  kinder  cautious   'bout  combatin'  with  the 

shine 

In  her  eyes  —  en'  jist  another  thing  that  nuther  you  er  I 
Could  look  at  with  easy  feelin'  is  a  piece  of  pumpkin  pie 
That  hez  made  our  mothers  famous  —  but  down  there  along 

the  track 

Is  the  man  who  does  the  cheerin' 
When 
the 

Troops 
Come 

Back. 

There  's  times  o'  course  when  ev'ry  soldier  gits  to  thinkin'  left 

en'  right, 

He  kin  hear  the  oF  bells  ringin'  in  the  middle  o'  the  night; 
He  kin  hear  the  whistles  blowin',   see  the  G.   A.  R.  march 

through 
Streets  with  houses  fairly  kivered  with  the  ol'  red,  white,  and 

blue, 

En'  kin  hear  the  band  a-playin'  in  a  dreamy  jubilee, 
En'  he  hears  a  fife  a-pipin'  "From  Atlanty  to  the  Sea," 
Echoin'  down  to  the  depot,  where  the  man  along  the  track 
Is  gettin'  ready  for  the  cheerin' 
When 
the 

Troops 
Come 
Back. 

It 's  jist  the  same  in  war  times  ez  in  common  ev'ry  day, 
When  a  feller  keeps  a-strugglin'  en'  a-peggin'  on  his  way, 
He  likes  to  hev  somebody  come  and  grab  him  by  the  hand 
En'  say:  "OF  boy,  you  '11  git  there  yit;  you  've  got  the  grit  en' 

sand." 

It  does  him  good,  en'  I  'low  that  it  does  a  soldier,  too; 
So  even  if  the  feller  at  the  track  don't  wear  the  blue, 
He  's  helped  save  bleedin'  Cuby  from  the  tyrants  en  their  rack 
By  leadin'  in  the  cheerin' 
When 
the 

Troops 
Come 
Back. 

ANONYMOUS. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY          351 

THE  BATTLE  OF  DUNDEE 

The  yearning  desire  of  the  Irish  to  fight  sometimes  leads  to 
curious  situations.  This  ballad  is  entirely  authentic  and  the 
anonymous  author  has  not  exaggerated.  The  Irish  Transvaal 
Bri-gade  fighting  for  the  Burghers  met  the  Royal  Irish  Fusileers  under 
the  British  flag  at  Dundee,  and  what  happened,  happened. 

ON  the  mountain-side  the  battle  raged,  there  was  no  stop  nor 

stay; 

Mackin  captured  Private  Burke  and  Ensign  Michael  Shea; 
Fitzgerald  got  Fitzpatrick,  Brannigan  found  O'Rourke; 
Finnigan  took  a  man  named  Fay  —  and  a  couple  of  lads  from 

Cork; 
Sudden  they  heard  McManus  shout,  "Hands  up,  or  I'll  run  you 

through!" 
He  thought  he  had  a  Yorkshire   "Tyke"  —  'twas   Corporal 

Donoghue! 

McGarry  took  O'Leary,  O'Brien  got  McNamee, 
That's  how  the   "English  fought  the  Dutch"  at  the  Battle  of 

Dundee. 

Then  some  one  brought  in  Casey,  O'Connor  took  O'Neill; 
Riley  captured  Kavanaugh,  while  trying  to  make  a  steal. 
Hogan  caught  McFadden,  Corrigan  found  McBride, 
And  Brennan  made  a  handsome  touch  while  Kelly  tried  a  slide. 
Dacey  took  a  lad  named  Welsh;  Dooley  got  McQuirk; 
Gilligan  turned  Fahey's  boy  —  for  his  father  he  used  to  work. 
They  had  matched  to  fight  the  English  —  but  Irish  were  all  they 

could  see  — 
That's  how  the   "English  fought  the  Dutch"  at  the  Battle  of 

Dundee. 

Spillane  then  took  O'Madigan;  Shannahan  took  Magee. 
While  chasing  Jerry  Donovan,  Clancy  got  shot  in  the  knee. 
He  cursed  the  Queen's  whole  army,  he  cursed  the  English  race, 
Then  found  the  man  who  fired  the  shot,   't  was  a  cousin  — 

Martin  Grace. 
Then  McGinnis  caught  an  A.  O.  H.  who  came  from  Limerick 

town; 
But  Sullivan  got  an  Orangeman  from  somewhere  in  County 

Down. 

Hennessey  took  O'Hara  —  Hennigan  took  McFee. 
That's  how  the  "English  fought  the  Dutch"  at  the  Battle  of 

Dundee. 

The  sun  was  sinking  slowly;  the  battle  rolled  along; 

The  man  that  Murphy  handed  in  was  a  cousin  of  Maud  Gonne. 

Then  Flannigan  dropped  his  rifle,  shook  hands  with  Bi&  McGuire, 

DftN 


352  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

For  both  had  carried  a  piece  of  turf  to  light  the  schoolroom 

fire. 

Then  Rafferty  took  in  Flaherty;  O'Connell  got  Major  McCue; 
O'Keefe  got  hold  of  Sergeant  Joyce  and  a  Belfast  lad  or  two. 
Some  swore  that  "Old  Man"  Kruger  had  come  down  to  see  the 

fun; 
But  the  man  they  thought  was  "Uncle  Paul"  was  a  Galway  man 

named  Dunn. 
Though  war  may  have  worse  horrors,  't  was  a  frightful  sight  to 

see 
The  way  the  "English  fought  the  Dutch"  at  the  Battle  of 

Dundee. 

Just  when  the  sound  of  firing  in  the  distance  fainter  grew, 
Ryan  caught  McCloskey,  and  Orderly  Donegon,  too. 
O'Toole  he  found  McCarthy;  O'Mahoney  got  Malone. 
Duffy  got  a  pair  of  lads  from  Connaught,  near  Athlone. 
Then  Dineen  took  O'Hagan;  Phelan  got  Kehoe. 
Dempsey  captured  Callahan,  but  Gallagher  let  him  go. 
You'd  have  thought  that  "Belfast  Chicken"  had  tackled  the 

"Dublin  Flea," 
The  way  the  "English  fought  the  Dutch"  at  the  Battle  of 

Dundee. 

Then  Powers  began  to  intervene,  the  Waterford  Powers,  I  mean, 
And  took  a  lad  named  Keenan  and  a  captain  named  Mulqueen. 
Then  Brady  captured  Noonan;  Maher  got  Mcldoo; 
McGovern  got  O'Hanlon  and  Colonel  McLoughlin,  too. 
'T  was  now  the  hour  of  sunset,  the  battle  was  nearly  o'er, 
When  McCormick  came  in  with  Hoolan  and  Lieutenant  Roger 

Moore. 

But  't  was  a  great  day  for  Ireland,  as  you  can  easily  see; 
That 's  how  the  "English  fought  the  Dutch"  at  the  Battle  of 

Dundee. 

They  marched  them  all  to  Kruger's  town  for  supper  and  a  bed, 
O'Halloran  was  the  rear  guard;  the  way,  McNulty  led. 
When  they  got  them  to  the  race-course  the  Boers  were  full  of 

While  Kruger  never  expected  "so  many  Englishmen  to  see." 
They  told  him  they  were  Irish;  it  puzzled  the  old  man's  head, 
For  the  Irish  he  'd  seen  were  dressed  in  green,  while  these  were 

togged  in  red; 

But  'tis  a  passing  story;  on  history's  page  you'll  see, 
That  "'twas  the  English  fought  the  Dutch"  at  the  Battle  of 

Dundee. 

ANONYMOUS. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  353 

THE  SOLDIER'S  SONG 

I  HEARD  a  soldier  sing  some  trifle 

Out  in  the  sun-dried  veldt  alone; 
He  lay  and  cleaned  his  grimy  rifle 

Idly,  behind  a  stone: 

"If,  after  death,  love  comes  a-waking, 

And  in  their  camp  so  dark  and  still 
The  men  of  dust  hear  bugles  breaking 

Their  halt  upon  the  hill, 

"To  me  the  slow  and  silver  pealing 
That  then  the  last  high  trumpet  pours 

Shall  softer  than  the  dawn  come  stealing, 
For  with  its  call,  comes  yours!" 

What  grief  of  love  had  he  to  stifle, 

Basking  so  idly  by  his  stone, 
That  grimy  soldier  with  his  rifle 

Out  on  the  veldt  alone! 

HERBERT  FRENCH. 

PAUL  JONES 

ONCE  more  the  favoring  breezes  blow 

In  briny  piping  gales  — 
Housed  in  a  warship  as  of  old 

Once  more  the  hero  sails. 
With  bended  head  and  lifted  cap 

They  raised  him  from  his  grave 
And  placed  him  where  he  loved  to  rest  — 

Upon  the  white-topped  wave. 

The  night  came  down  upon  the  deep, 

The  warship  calmly  rides, 
And  proudly  on  the  quarter-deck 

The  sailor's  spirit  strides. 
"These  turrets  and  these  iron  plates 

Seem  more  than  strange  to  me  — 
For  walls  of  oak  were  fort  enough 

When  I  was  on  the  sea! 
These  throbbing  engines,  and  the  lack 

Of  sail  to  dare  the  blast  — 
All  strange  and  new  —  but  what  care  I? 

My  pennon  crowns  the  mast! 
The  flag  first  danced  above  a  ship 

I  sailed  amid  the  foam  — 
And  now  floats  high  above  the  craft 

That  bears  me  back  to  home!" 


354  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

The  mist  grows  thicker,  and  the  night 

Is  black  with  heavier  clouds  — 
A  crew  of  ghosts  glides  down  the  deck, 

Or  clambers  up  the  shrouds. 
A  phantom  shape,  a  phantom  ship, 

Looms  grimly  through  the  shade  — 
And  George's  cross  above  the  peak 

Gleams  spectrally  displayed! 
The  rusty  cannon  flash  and  flame, 

And  through  the  haunted  night 
Rings  out  that  old  defiance  —  "I 

Have  just  begun  to  fight!" 
With  grisly  yard-arms  lashed  they  strive  — 

Smoke-palled  each  reeling  wreck, 
The  ghostly  hero  leads  his  tars 

Upon  the  wan-lit  deck! 
A  deadly  struggle  in  the  murk  — 

The  stars  flash  up  in  pride, 
And  through  the  reek  the  George's  cross 

Goes  fluttering  o'er  the  side! 
The  smoke-clouds  pass  —  the  parting  night 

Gives  way  before  the  dawn  — 
The  ship  of  steel  swings  on  her  way  — 

The  phantom  crew  is  gone! 

Once  more  the  favoring  breezes  blow 

In  briny  piping  gales  — 
Housed  in  the  warship  as  of  old 

Once  more  the  hero  sails. 
With  bended  head  and  lifted  cap 

They  wait  upon  the  shore  — 
To  greet  him  from  his  final  cruise  — 

He  voyages  no  more! 

WILLIAM  A.  PHELON. 

A   SONG  OF  PANAMA 

"CHUFF!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  a  mountain  bluff 

Is  moved  by  the  shovel's  song; 
"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"     Oh,  the  grade  is  rough 

A-liftin'  the  landscape  along! 

We  are  ants  upon  a  mountain,  but  we  're  leavin'  of  our  dent, 
An'  our  teeth-marks  bitin'  scenery  they  will  show  the  way  we 

went; 

We  're  a-liftin'  half  creation,  an'  we  're  changin'  it  around, 
Just  to  suit  our  playful  purpose  when  we  're  diggin'  in  the  ground. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND   HISTORY  355 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"     Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 

An'  the  way  to  the  sea  is  long; 
"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  the  engines  puff 

In  tune  to  the  shovel's  song! 

We  're  shif tin'  miles  like  inches,  an '  we  grab  a  forest  here 
Just  to  switch  it  over  yonder  so  's  to  leave  an  angle  clear; 
We  're  a-pushin'  leagues  o'  swamps  aside  so  's  we  can  hurry 

by  — 
An'  if  we  had  to  do  it  we  could  probably  switch  the  sky! 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"     Oh,  it 's  hard  enough 

When  you  're  changin'  a  job  gone  wrong; 
"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  there  's  no  rebuff 

To  the  shovel  a-singin'  its  song! 

You  hear  it  in  the  mornin'  an'  you  hear  it  late  at  night  — 
It 's  your  battery  keepin'  action  with  support  o'  dynamite; 
Oh,  you  gets  it  for  your  dinner,  an'  the  scenery  skips  along 
In  a  movin'  panorama  to  the  chargin'  shovel's  song! 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  it  grabs  the  scruff 

Of  a  hill  and  boosts  it  along; 
"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"     Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 

But  it  gives  to  the  shovel's  song! 

This  is  a  fight  that 's  fightin',  an'  the  battle  's  to  the  death; 
There  ain't  no  stoppin'  here  to  rest  or  even  catch  your  breath; 
You  ain't  no  noble  hero,  an'  you  leave  no  gallant  name  — 
You're  fightin'  Nature's  army,  an'  it  ain't  no  easy  game! 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"     Oh,  the  grade  is  rough, 

An'  the  way  to  the  end  is  long, 
"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  an'  the  engines  puff 

As  we  lift  the  landscape  along! 

ALFRED  DAMON  RUNYON. 

PANAMA 

(Home  of  the  dove-plant  or  Holy  Ghost  flower) 

WHAT  time  the  Lord  drew  back  the  sea 
And  gave  thee  room,  slight  Panama, 
"I  will  not  have  thee  great,"  said  He, 
"But  thou  shalt  bear  the  slender  key 
Of  both  the  gates  I  builded  me, 
And  all  the  great  shall  come  to  thee 
For  leave  to  pass,  O  Panama!" 

(Flower  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  white  dove, 
Breathe  sweetness  where  he  wrought  in  love.) 


356  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

His  oceans  call  across  the  land: 

"How  long,  how  long,  fair  Panama, 
Wilt  thou  the  shock  of  tides  withstand, 
Nor  heed  us  sobbing  by  the  strand? 
Set  wide  thy  gates  on  either  hand, 
That  we  may  search  through  saltless  sand  — 
May  clasp  and  kiss,  O  Panama!" 

(Flower  of  the  deep-embosomed  dove, 
So  should  his  mighty  nations  love.) 

Outpeal  His  holy  temple-clocks; 
It  is  thine  hour,  glad  Panama. 
Now  shall  thy  key  undo  the  locks; 
The  strong  shall  cleave  thy  sunken  rocks; 
Swung  loose  and  floating  from  their  docks, 
The  world's  white  fleets  shall  come  in  flocks 
To  thread  thy  straits,  O  Panama! 
(Flower  of  the  tropics,  snowy  dove, 
Forbid,  unless  they  come  in  love.) 

How  beautiful  is  thy  demesne! 

Search  out  thy  wealth,  proud  Panama: 
Thy  gold,  thy  pearls  of  silver  sheen, 
Thy  fruitful  palms,  thy  thickets  green; 
Load  thou  the  ships  that  ride  between; 
Attire  thee  as  becomes  a  queen: 
The  great  ones  greet  thee,  Panama! 
(Flower  of  the  white  and  peaceful  dove, 
Let  all  men  pass  who  come  in  love.) 

AMANDA  T.  JONES. 

OUR  TWENTY-SIX  PRESIDENTS  IN  RHYME 

FIRST  is  a  name  the  world  reveres, 

He  led  through  years  of  hopes  and  fears,  — 

Our  Washington,  of  wondrous  fame. 

Then  Adams  came,  of  humbler  name. 
He  first  Vice-President  had  been, 
And  'mid  war's  din  had  helped  to  win 
In  kings'  courts  place  for  nations  new. 
His  heart  was  true  when  friends  were  few. 

Four  years  he  steered  the  ship  of  state 
Through  danger  great,  for  France  so  late 
Our  country's  friend  had  foe  become. 
"The  warships  come!"  men  said,  while  some 
As  sentinels  upon  the  land 


WAR,    PEACE,   AND   HISTORY          357 

From  him  so  grand  await  command,  — 
From  Washington,  the  army's  chief. 
Whose  service  brief  (as  seemed  to  grief) 
Had  end  amid  this  vexing  strife,  — 
Had  end  with  life  while  tears  of  wife 
And  nation  followed  to  his  rest 
The  one  called  best.     He  stood  life's  test. 
Mark  this  of  Adams:     First  was  he 
To  dwell  where  we  by  wise  decree 
Built  our  new  nation's  capital,  — 
That  pride  of  all;  may  it  never  fall! 

Two  terms,  you  know,  had  Washington, 
Adams  but  one;  his  service  done 
Plain  Thomas  Jefferson  held  sway. 
This  we  may  say,  he  had  his  way, 
In  adding  to  our  nation  great 
A  realm  where  state  is  piled  on  state :  — 
What  was  to  France,  land  of  romance, 
He  bought,  thus  showed  prophetic  glance. 

Eight  years  had  passed;  and  war-cloud  dark, 

With  lightning's  spark  for  all  to  mark, 

Hung  over  our  Atlantic  seas. 

The  realm  to  please,  her  fears  to  ease, 

James  Madison  his  duty  found. 

Soon  came  war's  sound  and  deadly  wound. 

Monroe  next  ruled;  our  land  was  blest. 
Great  grew  the  West;  as  honored  guest 
Came  Lafayette  the  land  to  see 
He  helped  to  free,  —  for  you  and  me! 

Another  Adams  next  held  sway, 
Then  one  grown  gray  in  war's  fierce  way: 
The  sturdy  Jackson  whose  command 
Smote  treason's  hand  in  erring  land. 

Van  Buren  next  was  nation's  guide, 
Then  one  who  died  while  yet  untried 
In  his  great  office — Harrison. 
Soon  set  his  sun,  his  duty  done. 

Then  Tyler  served;  next,  James  K.  Polk, 
When  war  awoke  with  deadly  stroke. 

Next,  dying  in  his  well-won  fame, 
Brave  Taylor  came,  of  honored  name. 


358  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

Then  Fillmore  served:  next  Franklin  Pierce. 
Alas  for  Pierce!     When  strife  was  fierce 
He  ruled;  and  then  Buchanan  came. 
Next,  greatest  name  and  purest  fame 
Since  Washington  our  Lincoln  earned. 
Right  he  had  learned  and  wrong  he  spurned. 
By  fearful  deed,  —  the  nation's  woe,  — 
Crime  laid  him  low.     Next,  Johnson  know. 

Then  came  the  unboasting  soldier  Grant, 
So  free  from  cant  and  silly  rant. 

Next  Hayes  the  exalted  office  filled. 
Then  voters  willed  (who  soon  were  thrilled 
Once  more  with  tale  of  crime's  wild  thrust) 
To  give  the  trust  to  Garfield  just. 

Then  Arthur  President  became. 
This  roll  of  fame  next  bears  the  name 
Of  Cleveland.     Then  in  filial  pride 
Called  to  preside  as  nation's  guide 
We  find  a  younger  Harrison. 

Twice  Cleveland  won;  his  service  done 
McKinley  took  the  helm  of  state 
When,  dark  and  great,  war's  cloud  and  fate 
Broke  peace  with  Spain.     With  grief  deep-felt 
McKinley  passed.     Then  Roosevelt 
Was  long  our  chief  and  steered  our  craft 
Full  well,  till  William  Howard  Taft 
Took  up  the  helm.     And  now  't  is  time 
To  end  our  rhyme. 

JOHN  NELSON  DAVIDSON. 

IMPROMPTU  LINES  ON  JULY  FOURTH 

BEHOLD  from  the  brow  of  the  mountain  advancing, 

The  Goddess  of  Freedom  appears  to  our  view; 
On  the  breath  of  the  zephyr  her  tresses  are  dancing, 

And  the  sunbeams  illumine  each  spangle  of  dew; 
Full  gladly  she  welcomes  the  morn  of  her  glory, 

Serenely  she  smiles  at  the  land  of  the  free; 
With  rapture  retraces  the  page  of  her  story, 

And  laughs  with  the  veterans  she  nursed  on  her  KD6 

O  fair  is  the  land  that  our  fathers  defended, 
And  brilliant  the  era  of  Liberty's  birth; 

And  blest  are  the  chieftains  whose  valor  is  blended 
With  virtue  and  wisdom,  true  honor  and  worth. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND   HISTORY          359 

Here  plenty  and  peace  bless  the  toil  of  the  peasant, 

The  smile  of  sincerity  beams  on  his  cot  — 
His  offspring  are  healthy,  good-natured,  and  pleasant, 

And  gratitude's  tribute  is  never  forgot! 

Then  lift  the  full  goblet,  and  drink  to  the  glory 

Of  those  who  are  lost  in  the  night  of  the  tomb, 
Whose  names  are  enrolled  on  the  record  of  story, 

Whose  honor  and  valor  unfadingly  bloom. 
Lift,  lift  the  full  goblet  —  away  with  all  sorrow  — 

The  circle  of  friendship  what  freedom  would  sever? 
To-day  is  our  own,  and  a  fig  for  to-morrow  — 

Here  's  to  the  Fourth  and  our  country  forever. 

FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS. 
RATAPLAN 

"O  RATAPLAN!    It  is  a  merry  note, 
And,  mother,  I'm  for  'listing  in  the  morn"; 

"And  would  ye,  son,  to  wear  a  scarlet  coat, 

^  Go  leave  your  mother's  latter  age  forlorn?" 

"O  mother,  I  am  sick  of  sheep  and  goat, 
Fat  cattle,  and  the  reaping  of  the  corn; 

I  long  to  see  the  British  colors  float; 
For  glory,  glory,  glory,  was  I  born!" 

She  saw  him  march.     It  was  a  gallant  sight. 

She  blest  herself,  and  praised  him  for  a  man. 
And  straight  he  hurried  to  the  bitter  fight, 

And  found  a  bullet  in  the  drear  Soudan 
They  dug  a  shallow  grave  —  't  was  all  they  might; 

And  that  s  the  end  of  glory.     Rataplan! 

EDWARD  CRACROFT  LEFROY. 

SAN  FRANCISCO* 


(April,  1906) 
WHO  more  shall  trust  thee,  Nature;  who  so  dare 

Of  all  remembering  what  she  was  to  thee 
To  u.8'  —  the  bodied  brightness  of  the  air,   ' 

Blithe  San  Francisco,  of  the  sun  and  sea? 
Mate  of  the  sun,  the  sea-wind,  free  as  fair 

Dear  to  the  day,  the  darling  of  the  night 
Running  with  laughter,  and  with  golden  hair 

Blown  back  -  but  yesterday  her  heart  so  light! 

o-day,  the  sea  is  sobbing  her  sweet  name; 

Gate'"  F"  A'  Stokes 


360  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

The  morning  sorrows,  and  the  stars  of  rest, 
For  her  with  that  mad  craft  of  shock  and  flame 

Flung,  in  her  sleep,  from  thy  forgetting  breast. 
Our  San  Francisco,  child  of  the  sea  and  sun, 
Thine  own,  yet  ours  —  Mother,  what  hast  thou  done  ? 

II 

(October,  1909) 

Shadows  and  vanities,  blind  to  the  light, 

Too  wise  to  know,  too  proud  to  understand; 
Mortals,  of  brittle  trust  and  thickened  sight, 

Undone  by  the  well-doing  of  my  hand, 
Can  ye  not  see  I  did  it  for  her  sake, 

High  as  her  place  was,  willed  to  set  her  higher  ? 
Under  her  feet  the  beams  of  earth  must  shake, 

Suck  there  the  hungry  gurge  of  wind  and  fire. 
Mine  own  had  need  of  this,  she  of  my  bone, 

Whose  blood  I  pulsed,  and  her  safe  beauty  charmed; 
The  world  must  know  that  she,  and  she  alone, 

Could  stand,  hell-breath  full  in  her  face,  unharmed. 
Behold  her  risen,  the  jewels  on  her  brow, 
Proved  Empress  of  the  Western  Garden,  now. 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 

PEACE 

LET  the  reign  of  Hate  cease; 

Let  the  white  lily  blow  where  the  thistle  stood; 
Sing  a  psean  of  peace 

And  a  song  of  hope  unto  God's  brotherhood! 
The  foe  that  we  smote 

Is  constrained  to  bow  — 
Loose  the  grip  on  his  throat, 

Let  us  succor  him  now. 

O  Angel  of  Peace,  in  thy  garments  of  white, 

The  war  dogs  are  leashed  —  we  have  led  them  away; 
Thou  returnest  to  witness  the  triumph  of  Right 

And  the  dawn  of  a  glorious  day! 
We  have  held  the  red  hand  of  the  Demon  of  Hate, 

We  have  heard  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  minions  of  Might; 
We  have  threaded  the  paths  where  the  imps  of  hell  wait  — 

We  have  safely  emerged  from  the  perilous  night; 
We  have  plunged  through  the  flame  where  the  godless  are  burned, 

Where  the  shrieks  of  the  lost  and  the  hopeless  are  blent  — 
We  have  tasted  War's  poisonous  potion  and  learned 

How  sweet  is  the  cup  that  thou  hast  to  present. 


WAR,    PEACE,    AND    HISTORY  361 

We  have  culled  the  red  flower 

Of  glory  that  grew 
From  the  sod  which  the  shower 
Of  blood  made  to  bear; 

We  have  followed  where  Justice  hath  led  the  way  through, 
And  planted  the  seeds  of  enlightenment  there! 

We  have  trod  on  the  tares  that  sprang  up  by  the  way, 
We  have  cut  down  the  thorns  —  we  have  sown 

God's  crops  in  the  fields  that  were  waste  yesterday, 
And  given  them  back  to  their  own. 

O  Angel  in  White, 

Sing  the  paean  of  hope; 
The  dawn's  welcome  1  ght 

Breaks  across  the  red  slope! 
Let  the  clash  of  arms  cease 

'Twixt  the  Wrong  and  the  Strong  — 
Let  the  new  reign  of  Peace 

Be  unclouded  and  long! 

S.  E.  RISER. 

ANGEL  OF  PEACE 

ANGEL  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too  long! 

Spread  thy  white  wings  to  the  sunshine  of  love! 
Come  while  our  voices  are  blended  in  song,  — 

Fly  to  our  ark  like  the  storm-beaten  dove! 
Fly  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the  dove,  — 

Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding  billows  of  song, 
Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland  of  love,  — 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too  long. 

Brothers  we  meet,  on  this  altar  of  thine 

Mingling  the  gifts  we  have  gathered  for  thee, 
Sweet  with  the  odors  of  myrtle  and  pine, 

Breeze  of  the  prairie  and  breath  of  the  sea,  — 
Meadow  and  mountain  and  forest  and  sea! 

Sweet  is  the  fragrance  of  myrtle  and  pine, 
Sweetest  the  incense  we  offer  to  thee, 

Brothers  once  more  round  this  altar  of  thine! 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  answer  the  strain! 

Hark!  a  new  birthsong  is  filling  the  sky!  — 
Loud  as  the  storm-wind  that  tumbles  the  main 

Bid  the  full  breath  of  the  organ  reply,  — 
Let  the  loud  tempest  of  voices  reply,  — 

Roll  its  long  surge  like  the  earth-shaking  main! 
Swell  the  vast  song  till  it  mounts  to  the  sky! 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  echo  the  strain! 

ANONYMOUS. 


362  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

THE   ULTIMATE  NORTH 


Now  doth  the  North  his  inmost  secret  yield; 

Now  is  there  nothing  more  beyond;  we  know 

The  Thule  Ultima.     The  final  woe 
Of  the  vast  frozen  zone,  though  triple-steeled 
With  cold  and  storm,  lays  off  the  decent  shield 

Granted  it  an  eternity  ago 

Among  great  gales,  and  silence,  ice,  and  snow, 
When  pallid  Hela's  horrors  stalked  afield. 

No  more  the  lure  of  the  North's  hidden  things 
Tempts  man  to  pay  the  last  and  awful  price; 

For  secret  was  there  none.     Long  wanderings 
Have  proved  again  what  trifles  may  entice 

Mankind;  if  but  denied,  the  spirit  springs 
Even  at  a  flock  of  palseocrystic  ice! 

II 

Yet  has  the  frosty  deed  full  excellence. 
It  is  no  barren  thing  to  set  a  goal 
High  and  afar,  and  strive  with  iron  soul, 

Throwing  aside  despair  as  vain  pretence, 

Facing  the  terrors  of  the  elements, 
Discarding  failure,  till,  beside  the  Pole 
One's  name  is  set,  as  on  the  eternal  scroll 

Of  those  who  win  from  Earth's  own  dissidence. 

Praise  to  the  victor!   Yet  let  laurels  rest 

As  well  upon  the  still  undaunted  brow 
Of  each  who  sought  and  won  not  from  the  rime 

The  final  triumph;  these  are  not  unblest, 
Though  to  a  single  soul  the  Norns  allow 

This  blending  of  Valhall  and  Niffleheim. 

WALLACE  RICE. 


Part  3EPJJ3 
IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


LAUGHTER  lurking  in  the  eye,  sir, 

Pleasure  foots  it  frisk  and  free; 
He  who  frowns  or  looks  awry,  sir, 

Faith,  a  witless  wight  is  he  ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


£att 
IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


A  BANJO  SONG 

OH,  dere  's  lots  o'  keer  an'  trouble 

In  dis  world  to  swaller  down; 
An'  ol'  Sorrer  's  purty  lively 

In  her  way  o'  gittin'  roun'. 
Yet  der  's  times  when  I  furgit  'em,  — 

Aches  an'  pains  an'  troubles  all,  — 
An'  it 's  when  I  tek  at  ebenin' 

My  ol'  banjo  from  the  wall. 

'Bout  de  time  dat  night  is  fallin' 

An'  my  daily  wu'k  is  done, 
An'  above  de  shady  hilltops 

I  kin  see  de  settin'  sun; 
When  de  quiet,  restful  shadders 

Is  beginnin'  jes'  to  fall,  — 
Den  I  tek  de  little  banjo 

F'om  its  place  upon  de  wall. 

Den  my  fam'ly  gadders  roun'  me 

In  de  fadin'  o'  de  light, 
Ez  I  strike  de  strings  to  try  'em 

Ef  dey  all  is  tuned  er-right, 
An'  it  seems  we  're  so  nigh  Heaben 

We  kin  hyeah  de  angels  sing 
When  de  music  o'  dat  banjo 

Sets  my  cabin  all  er-ring. 

An'  my  wife  an'  all  de  othahs,  — 

Male  and  female,  small  an'  big,  — 
Even  up  to  gray-haired  granny, 

Seem  jes'  boun'  to  do  a  jig; 
'Twell  I  change  de  style  o'  music, 

Change  de  movement  an'  de  time, 
An'  de  ringin'  little  banjo 

Plays  an'  ol'  hea't-feelin'  hime. 
365 


366  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

An'  somehow  my  th'oat  gits  choky, 

An'  a  lump  keeps  trin'  to  rise 
Lak  it  wan'ed  to  ketch  de  water 

Dat  was  flowin'  to  my  eyes; 
An'  I  feel  dat  I  could  sorter 

Knock  de  socks  clean  off  o'  sin 
Ez  I  heah  my  po'  ol'  granny 

Wif  huh  tremblin'  voice  jine  in. 

D'en  we  all  th'ow  in  our  voices 

Fu'  to  h'ep  de  chune  out  too, 
Lak  a  big  camp-meetin'  choiry 

Tryin'  to  sing  a  mou'nah  th'oo. 
An'  our  th'oahts  let  out  de  music, 

Sweet  an'  solemn,  loud  an'  free, 
'Twell  de  raftahs  o'  my  cabin 

Echo  wif  de  melody. 

Oh,  de  music  o'  de  banjo, 

Quick  an'  deb'lish,  solemn,  slow, 
Is  de  greates'  joy  an'  solace 

Dat  a  weary  slave  kin  know! 
So  jes'  let  me  heah  it  ringin', 

Dough  de  chune  be  po'  an'  rough, 
It 's  a  pleasure;  an'  de  pleasures 

O'  dis  life  is  few  enough. 

Now  de  blessed  little  angels 

Up  in  Heaben,  we  are  told, 
Don't  do  nothin'  all  dere  lifetime 

'Ceptin'  play  on  ha'ps  o'  gold. 
Now  I  think  Heaben  'd  be  mo'  homelike 

Ef  we  's  hyeah  some  music  fall 
F'om  a  real  ol'-fashioned  banjo, 
Like  dat  one  upon  de  wall. 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR. 

GOLF  AND  LIFE 

LIFE  's  but  a  game  of  golf; 

At  first  the  tee  — 
Catnip,  perchance,  or  some  such  sort  — 

And  then  we  see 
The  bunkers  that  obtrude  themselves 

Before  each  green 
We  strive  with  eager  strokes  to  gain!  — 

The  ruts  unseen 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  367 

That  everywhere  abound  to  foil  — 

To  bring  dismay  — 
To  spoil  the  gains  good  strokes  have  brought, 

And  drive  our  hopes  away. 

There  are  the  foozles  that 

Bring  grief  or  shame! 
The  getting  out  of  bounds  —  the  quest 

For  things  to  blame  — 
The  lasting  supposition  of 

What  " might  have  been"  — 
The  "galleries"  for  those  alone 

That  chance  to  win!  — 
The  striving  on  to  beat  the  score 

Of  foe  and  friend, 
And,  after  all  the  struggles,  just 

To  "hole  down"  at  the  end.  . 

S.  E.  RISER. 

THE  CHICKEN;   OR,  MY  FIRST  INTRODUCTION 
TO  THE  ANCIENT  GAME  OF  GOLF 

ONCE  upon  a  day  most  dreary,  I  was  wandering  weak  and  weary, 
Thinking  I  had  seldom  seen  so  drear  a  looking  moor; 
For  the  stillness  was  unbroken  by  a  single  sign  or  token 
That  a  voice  had  ever  spoken;  when  I  felt  upon  my  jaw 
Something  hit  me  without  warning,  nearly  breaking  through 
my  jaw, 

And  from  pain  I  knew  no  more. 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  that  it  was  a  chill  November 
When  I  stood  thus  watching  faintly  divers  sparks  to  Heaven 

soar; 
Then  two  awful  men  came  stealing,  while  with  pain  I  still  was 

reeling, 

Plainly  I  recall  the  feeling,  as  they  kept  on  shouting  "Fore!" 
But  I  moved  not  in  my  horror,  while  they  still  kept  shouting 

"Fore!" 

Feeling  pain  and  nothing  more. 

But  fierce  danger  still  was  pending,  for  I,  still  with  anguish 

bending, 

Heard  the  sound  of  ether  rending,  as  an  object  through  it  tore, 
And  beside  me  there  alighted  something  that  was  round  and 

whited, 

Looking  like  a  star  affrighted  that  had  shone  in  days  of  yore. 
There  it  lay,  a  grim  and  ghastly  whitewashed  wreck  of  days  of 

yore, 

Round  and  white  and  nothing  more. 


368  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger,  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sirs,"  said  I,  to  these  two  strangers,  "tell  me  this  I  do  implore, 
By  the  red  coats  ye  are  wearing,  by  the  weapons  ye  are  bearing, 
Know  ye  whence  these  things    come   tearing  —  are  they  me 
teoric  ore? 

One  has  wounded  me  severely,  and  seems  hard  as  any  ore." 
But  they  laughed  and  nothing  more. 

Then,  into  their  faces  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering, 

fearing; 

Fighting  frantic  fears  no  mortal  ever  had  to  fight  before; 
They  had  laughed  when  I  had  spoken,  and  I  guessed  by  this 

same  token 
They  were  idiots  who  had  broken,  doubtless,  through  the  asylum 

door. 
Idiots  who  'd  escaped  from  Earlswood,  having  broken  through 

the  door. 

This,  alas!  and  nothing  more. 

But  while  I,  half  bent  on  flying,  still  within  my  mind  was  trying 
To  think  out  how  them  in  safety  to  their  home  I  might  restore; 
One  man  broke  the  pause  by  saying  that  't  was  cussed  nonsense 

playing 

If  fools  would  continue  staying  even  when  they  halloed  "Fore!" 
Staying  mooning  on  the  hazard  while  four  lungs  were  bellowing 

"Fore!" 

Then  he  swore  and  said  no  more. 

Now  through  all  my  mind  came  stealing  quite  a  different  kind 

of  feeling, 

As  I  thought  I  'd  heard  some  speaking  of  a  game  like  this  before; 
So,  by  way  of  explanation,  I  delivered  an  oration 
Of  a  suitable  duration,  which  I  think  they  thought  a  bore; 
And    I  said,   "I'll  watch  your  playing,"  but  they  muttered 

"Cussed  bore!" 

Just  these  words  and  nothing  more. 

Then  I  seemed  to  see  quite  plainly  two  boys  near  in  clothes 

ungainly, 

Waiting  by  us  bearing  weapons  —  such  a  curious,  endless  store! 
And  I  said,  "You  '11  be  agreeing  that  no  earthly  living  being 
Ever  yet  was  blest  by  seeing  such  queer  things  as  these  before? 
Hooks  and  crooks  of  all  descriptions  such  as  ne'er  were  seen 

before." 

"Clubs  be  they,  and  nothing  more." 

Thus  spoke  one  they  called  a  caddie,  though  he  spoke  more  like 
a  Paddy, 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  369 

And  I  said  whilst  slowly  following,  "  Tell  their  names,  I  do  im 
plore!" 

Then  these  words  he  seemed  to  utter  in  a  most  uncivil  mutter, 

"Driver,  cleek,  spoon,  brassey,  putter,"  till  he  reached  about  a 
score, 

Muttering  thus  he  still  continued,  till  he  reached  at  least  a  score, 
Or  maybe  a  trifle  more. 

Soon  the  boy,  when  some  one  hallooed,  went  ahead  while  still  I 

followed, 

Wondering  much  to  see  how  quickly  he  across  the  bracken  tore: 
Faster  still  he  flew  and  faster  to  his  most  unhappy  master, 
Who  had  met  with  some  disaster,  which  he  seemed  to  much 

deplore, 

For  his  ball  was  in  a  cart-rut,  this  alone  he  did  deplore, 
Only  this  and  nothing  more. 

Here  he  cried,  "Do  try  and  be  quick!  don't  you  see  I  want  my 

niblick? 
Curse  these  deep  and  muddy  places,  which  one's  balls  will  quite 

immure." 
Then  the  mud  so  fierce  did  lash  he,  that  his  garments  soon  were 

splashy 

And  he  called  out  for  his  mashie,  and  he  very  loudly  swore, 
Mashing,  splashing,  did  not  aid  him,  nor  did  all  the  oaths  he 

swore, 

The  ball  sank  in  and  nothing  more. 

Whilst  I  was  engaged  in  thinking  how  deep  down  the  thing  was 

sinking, 

Listening  to  the  flow  of  language  that  from  out  his  lips  did  pour; 
Suddenly  he  dived  and  sought  it,  and  from  out  the  mud  he 

brought  it, 
Tossed  it  to  the  boy,  who  caught  it,  then  he  counted  up  his 

score, 
Said  if  he  at  first  had  tee'd  it,  he  'd  have  saved  quite  half  his 

score, 

Now  he  'd  try  the  hole  no  more. 

So  I  thought  the  game  was  ended,  but  their  talk  was  so  much 

blended 

With  a  language  unfamiliar  which  I  had  not  heard  before; 
For  in  argument  quite  stormy  they  disputed  about  "dormie," 
And  the  word  it  clean  did  floor  me,  though  I  thought  it  deeply 

o'er. 

Tried  to  sift  its  derivation,  but  while  still  I  thought  it  o'er 
It  perplexed  me  more  and  more. 


370  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

"Players,"  said  I,  "sure  I  'm  dying  just  to  send  that  ball  a-flying, 
Let  me  show  you  how  I  Jd  make  it  up  into  the  heaven  soar!" 
And  one  answered,  "Come,  and  try  it!  we  should  like  to  see  you 

sky  it! 

Here  's  a  club,  six  bob  will  buy  it,  I  have  plenty  at  the  store." 
'T  was  the  man  who  teaches  golfing,  and  who  keeps  clubs  in 

store, 

Just  himself  and  nothing  more. 

Then  the  other,  who  was  playing,  said  he  did  not  mind  delaying 
Just  to  see  me  make  a  something  of  a  record  of  a  score. 
So  unto  the  tee  they  led  me,  and  of  six  good  bob  they  bled  me, 
And  with  flattery  they  fed  me,  but  the  ball  it  would  not  soar; 
So  they  said  I  must  "address"  it,  —  but  no  language  made  it 
soar, 

It  just  rolled  and  nothing  more. 

"Ball,"  I  said,  "thou  thing  of  evil!  Emblem  of  a  slippery  devil! 
White  thou  seemest,  yet  I  reckon  thou  art  black  right  to  the  core; 
On  thy  side  I  see  a  token  of  the  truth  that  I  have  spoken, 
And  a  gash,  that  I  have  broken,  shows  thee  to  be  whitened  o'er; 
Shows  thy  true  self  'neath  the  varnish  with  which  thou  art  cov 
ered  o'er, 

Only  black  and  nothing  more!" 

Then  with  rage  I  took  my  driver,  smiting  at  this  foul  survivor 
Of  the  devil  very  fiercely,  but  the  turf,  alas!  I  tore, 
And  an  awful  crash  resounding  as  of  splintered  timber  sounding 
Heard  I,  as  the  head  went  bounding,  and  my  club  broke  to  the 

core; 

Just  a  stick  I  held  all  broken,  broken  right  across  the  core, 
But  a  stick  and  nothing  more. 

And  the  ball,  no  thought  of  flitting,  still  was  sitting,  still  was 

sitting 

Quietly  on  its  little  sandheap,  just  as  it  had  sat  of  yore; 
I  was  greatly  aggravated  and  I  very  plainly  stated 
That  the  game  was  overrated,  as  I  've  heard  men  say  before; 
So  I  swore  I  'd  chuck  the  game  up,  as  some  others  have  before, 
And  would  play  it  never  more! 

S.  F.  OUTWOOD. 

THE  FOOTBALL  CASABIANCA 

THE  boy  stood  on  the  football  field 

Whence  all  but  him  had  fled. 
The  rooter's  shoutings  echoed  o'er 

The  dying  and  the  dead. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  371 

His  hair  hung  down  into  his  eyes  — 

Such  of  it  as  was  left  — 
For,  sad  to  state,  at  one  fell  swoop 

Of  it  he  'd  been  bereft. 

One  arm  hung  limply  at  his  side 

And  fluttered  as  he  reeled; 
His  teeth,  like  snowflakes  in  the  wind, 

Were  scattered  o'er  the  field. 

His  shirt  was  torn  across  the  chest, 

His  pants  ripped  at  the  knees, 
His  shoes  clung  sadly  to  his  feet, 

Like  mistletoe  to  trees. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

While  all  around,  alack! 
Were  fragments  of  the  centre  rush, 

The  half  and  quarter  back. 

The  tackles  on  the  goal  posts  hung, 

The  guards  were  borne  away 
In  ambulances  which  were  called 

Quite  early  in  the  fray. 

And  here  and  there  lay  shoulderblades, 

And  ears  on  every  side, 
With  fingers,  feet,  and  locks  of  hair  — 

All  unidentified. 

But  still  he  stood  amid  this  wreck. 

O,  that  this  tongue  could  tell 
How  bravely  he  essayed  to  speak 

And  give  his  college  yell! 

His  father  called  him  from  the  box; 

His  mother,  from  the  stand; 
Yet  ever  nobly  stood  he  there, 

A  football  in  his  hand. 

The  other  side  was  lining  up, 

With  husky  boast  and  scream. 
"Come  on!"  he  mumbled,  toothlessly, 

"I'll  buck  the  entire  team!" 

They  formed  a  flying  wedge,  and  hurled 

The  gallant  lad  on  high, 
And  when  they  downed  him,  shoes  and  legs 

Were  waving  in  the  sky. 


372  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Therd  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound. 

The  boy  —  O,  where  was  he? 
Ask  of  the  other  team,  that  left 

With  college  chant  and  glee. 

Ask  of  the  other  team,  and  learn: 

"He  has  not  yet  been  seen. 
They  don't  expect  to  find  him,  till 

They  get  some  gasoline!" 

WILBUR  D.  NESBIT. 

CASEY  AT  THE  BAT 

IT  looked  extremely  rocky  for  the  Mudville  nine  that  day;/!: 
The  score  stood  four  to  six  with  just  an  inning  h  ft  to  play,; ./ 
And  so,  when  Cooney  died  at,  first,|  and  Burrows  did  the  same] 
A  pallor  wreathed  the  features  of  the  patrons  of  the  game.  •  ( 

A  straggling  few  got  up  to  go j  leaving  there  the  rest  | 
With  that  hope  that  springs  eternal  within  the  human  breast; 
They  thought  if  only  Casey  could  get  one  whack,  at  that} 
They  'd  put  up  even  money,! with  Casey  at  the  bat. 


L 

But  Flynn  preceded  Casey,  fand  so 

And  the  former  was  a  pudding  [and  the  latter  was  a  fake,  f 

So  on  that  stricken  multitude  a  deathlike  silence  sat,| 

For  there  seemed  but  little  chance  of  Casey's  getting  to  the  bat. 

But  Flynn  let  drive  a  single,! to  the  wonderment  of  all,! 
And  the  much  despised  Blaikie  tore  the  cover  off  the  ball;/ .' 
And  when  the  dust  had  lifted,  and  they  saw  what  had  occurred^ 
There  was  Blaikie  safe  on  second  and  Flynn  a-hugging  thirol. 

Then  from  the  gladdened  multitude  went  up  a  joyous  yell;  ' 
It  bounded  from  the  mountain-top,  and  rattled  in  the  dell;  j 
It  struck  upon  the  hillside  and  rebounded  on  the  flat, 
For  Casey, | mighty  Casey, (was  advancing  to  the  bat.  il 

There  was  ease  in  Casey's  manner  as  he  stepped  into  his  place;  \ 
There  was  pride  in  Casey's  bearing|and  a  smile  on  Casey's  facejj 
And  when, | responding  to  the  cheers,' he  lightly  doffed  his  hat, 
No  stranger  in  the  crowd  could  doubtj't  was  Casey  at  the  bat.(,  \ 

Ten  thousand  eyes  were  on  him  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  with 

dirt;  / 
Five  thousand  tongues  applauded  when  he  wiped  them  on  his 

shirt./" 

Th en  ,f while  the  writhing  pitcher  ground  the  ball  into  his  hip,) 
Defiance  gleamed  in  Casey's  eye,|a  sneer  curled  Casey's  lip. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  373 

And  now  the  leather-covered  sphere  came  hurtling  through  the 

air,  / 

And  Casey  stood  a-watching  it  in  haughty  grandeur  there,  j 
Close  by  the  sturdy  batsmen  the  ball  unheeded  sped  —  j 
"That  ain't  my  style/'fsaid  Casey Jj  "Strike  one,"|the  umpire 

said.  /[ 

From  the  benches,  black  with  people,  there  went  up  a  muffled 

roar, 
Like  the  beating  of  the  storm-waves  on  a  stern  and  distant 

shore,  f.  '^ 

"Kill  him!  fKill  the  umpire !  "^shouted  some  one' en  the  stand;  / 
And  it 's  likely  they  'd  have  killed  him,}  had  not  Casey  raised 

his  hand/  / 

With  a  smile  of  Christian  charitwgreat  Casey's  visage  shone;  \ 
He  stilled  the  rising  tumult | he  tame  the  game  go  on;  / 
He  signalled  to  the  pitcher, {and  once  more  the  spheroid  flew;/ 
But  Casey  still  ignored  'ilMnd  the  umpire  said :|" Strike  two."// 

"Fraud! "(cried  the  maddened  thousands,! and  the  echo  answered 

"Fraud!"! 

But  the  scornful  look  from  Casey,  jand  the  audience  was  awed.  // 
They  saw  his  face  grow  stern  and  cold,lthey  saw  his  muscles 

strain,  j 
And  they  Knew  that  Casey  would  n't  let  that  ball  go  by  again.  |) 

The  sneer  is  gone  from  Casey's  lip \ his  teeth  are  clenchecjLm  hate;  J 
He  pounds  with  cruel  violence  his  bat  upon  the  plate.  . 
And  now  the  pitcher  holds  the  ball,|and  now  he  lets  it  go,  j 
And  now  the  air  is  shattered  by  the  force  of  Casey's  blow.\  \ 

Oh!  somewhere  in  this  favored  land  the  sun  is  shining  bright;  • 
The  band  is  playing  somewhere.) and  somewhere  hearts  are  light,,' 
And  somewhere  men  are  laughing, fand  somewhere  children  shout;  | 
But  there  is  no  joy  in  Mudville  -*•  mighty  Casey  has  struck 
out.)| 

ERNEST  LAWRENCE  THAYER. 

r 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  CHAMPIONS 

DEAR  little  Willie  takes  the  ball 

And  lightly  lays  it  on  the  tee; 
They  say  he  was  thirteen  last  fall, 

But  oh,  to  putt  as  well  as  he! 

His  face  from  whiskers  still  is  fr^e  — 
He  drives!     Behold  the  gutty  go! 

It  was  a  man's  game  once  —  ah  me, 
The*boys  are  laying  Bogie  low. 


374  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

There  's  Eddie,  whose  brown  arms  are  small, 

Whose  shoulders  barely  reach  your  knee, 
Whose  rocking-horse  stands  in  the  hall, 

Who  has  just  learned  his  A,  B,  C  — 

He  has  a  stroke  that  all  agree 
Is  better  than  the  experts  show; 

He  drives  the  ball  far  o'er  the  lea  — 
The  boys  are  laying  Bogie  low. 

They  Ve  left  their  marbles,  tops,  and  all 

The  other  toys  that  used  to  be 
So  dear  to  boyish  heart;  they  sprawl 

No  more  beneath  the  greenwood  tree; 

But  each  child  takes  a  gallery, 
Applauding,  round  the  course  —  they  know 

The  royal  game  from  A  to  Z  — 
The  boys  are  laying  Bogie  low. 

L'Envvi  t 

Friend,  are  no  glories  left  that  we 
May  claim  who  use  the  razor?     Oh, 

Hark  to  their  childish  shouts  of  glee  — 
The  boys  are  laying  Bogie  low! 

ANONYMOUS. 

QUESTION  AND  ANSWER 

WHAT  is  that,  mother? 

A  man,  my  child. 
See,  there  he  goes,  with  gait  and  aspect  mild. 

But  see  what  he  's  got  on,  my  mother  dear  — 
But  listen,  and  that  coat  you  '11  plainly  hear, 
Though  he's  a  block  away! 

Yet,  yet,  my  boy, 

He  does  not  wear  that  jacket  to  annoy; 
For  how  could  we  both  know,  if  it  was  off, 
That  he  is  swell  enough  to  play  at  golf? 

ANONYMOUS. 

MAUD  MULLER  A-WHEEL 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Mounted  her  wheel  and  rode  away. 

Beneath  her  blue  cap  glowed  a  wealth 
Of  large  red  freckles  and  first-rate  health. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  375 

Single  she  rode,  and  her  merry  glee 
Frightened  the  sparrow  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  was  several  miles  from  town 
Upon  a  hill-slope,  coasting  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  sort  of  terror  filled  her  breast  — 

A  fear  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own; 

For  what  if  her  wheel  should  strike  a  stone! 

The  Judge  scorched  swiftly  down  the  road  — 
Just  then  she  heard  his  tire  explode! 

He  carried  his  wheel  into  the  shade 
Of  the  apple  tree  to  await  the  maid. 

And  he  asked  her  if  she  would  kindly  loan 
Her  pump  to  him,  as  he  had  lost  his  own. 

She  left  her  wheel  with  a  sprightly  jump 
And  in  less  than  a  jiffy  produced  the  pump. 

And  she  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
At  her  feet,  once  hid  by  a  trailing  gown. 

Then  said  the  Judge  as  he  pumped  away, 

"  JT  is  very  fine  weather  we  're  having  to-day." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  twenty-mile  rides  and  centuries; 

And  Maud  forgot  that  no  trailing  gown 
Was  over  her  bloomers  hanging  down. 

But  the  tire  was  fixed,  alack-a-day! 
The  Judge  remounted  and  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed,  "Ah  me!" 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 

"  My  father  should  have  a  brand  new  wheel 
Of  the  costliest  make  and  the  finest  steel. 

"And  I'd  give  one  to  ma  of  the  same  design 
So  that  she'd  cease  to  borrow  mine." 


376  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"A  prettier  face  and  a  form  more  fair 
I  've  seldom  gazed  at,  I  declare! 

"Would  she  were  mine  and  I  to-day 
Could  make  her  put  those  bloomers  away!" 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold, 
And  shuddered  to  think  how  they  would  scold 

If  he  should,  one  of  these  afternoons, 
Come  home  with  a  bride  in  pantaloons! 

He  married  a  wife  of  the  richest  dower, 

Who  had  never  succumbed  to  the  bloomers'  power; 

Yet  oft,  while  watching  the  smoke  wreaths  curl, 
He  thought  of  that  freckled  bloomer  girl; 

Of  the  way  she  stood  there  pigeon-toed, 
While  he  was  pumping  beside  the  road. 

She  married  a  man  who  clerked  in  a  store. 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

And  then  her  bloomers  brought  her  joy! 
She  cut  them  down  for  her  oldest  boy. 

But  still  of  the  Judge  she  often  thought, 

And  sighed  o'er  the  loss  her  bloomers  wrought. 

Or  wondered  if  wearing  them  was  a  sin, 
And  then  confessed:  "It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  the  Judge!     Alas  for  the  Maid! 
Dreams  were  their  only  stock  in  trade. 

For  of  all  wise  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  wisest  are  these:  "Leave  pants  to  men." 

Ah,  well!     For  us  all  hope  still  remains, 
For  the  bloomer  girl  and  the  man  of  brains. 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  bloomers  may 
Be  not  allowed  to  block  the  way! 

S.  E.  KISER. 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  377 

THE  PIKER'S  RUBAIYAT 

WAKE!     For  the  Sun  is  out  with  all  his  might 
And  o'er  the  Paddock  sheds  a  stream  of  light. 
Ah,  that  a  man  might  know  at  one  o'clock 
What  he  will  know  by  six  o'clock  to-night. 

Before  the  Phantom  of  Last  Evening  died 
I  said:  "Alas!  if  I  could  but  decide 

To  pick  the  Winner  what  a  Peach  I'd  be!" 
(The  Wisdom  of  which  cannot  be  denied.) 

Now,  Hiram  bets  a  wad  on  David  Rose 

And  Joseph's  Sev'n-Bone  Bet  on  Highball  goes, 

But  still  a  Reuben  plays  the  Winter  Book 
And  many  a  Scad  upon  the  Bookie  Blows. 

Come,  fill  the  Stand  and  with  the  Clothes  of  Spring 
Your  summer  garments  from  the  Tailor  bring. 

If  you  would  take  a  little  Tip  from  me 
You  'd  get  a  piece  of  gold  on  Flower  King. 

Whether  at  Harlem  or  at  Washington 
Park  or  where'er  the  prancing  Ponies  run, 

The  odds  upon  the  Equines  always  drop  — 
The  Mortal  Cinches  vanish  one  by  one. 

Each  Car  a  thousand  Pikers  brings,  you  say, 
Yes,  but  who  Dreamed  the  Dope  of  Yesterday 

And  some  poor  Shipping  Clerk  who  wagered  Ten 
May  take  about  a  thousand  bones  away. 

Well,  let  him  take  them,  what  have  you  to  do 
With  Copperfield  or  Proceeds  or  Bran  New? 

It  looks  as  though  that  English  Lad  would  win, 
But  then  the  odds  are  only  five  to  two. 

Some  advertise  their  Dope  and  some  keep  Mum, 
And  others  say,  "I  told  you  so,  by  gum!" 

Ah,  take  the  Cash  and  let  the  Credit  Go! 
To  have  some  coming  —  that  is  going  some. 

The  worldly  Dope  men  bet  their  Cash  upon 
Turns  ashes  —  or  it  prospers;  and  anon 

I  heard  one  say,  "By  Heck,  what  Rotten  Luck, 
I  could  n't  get  a  piece  of  money  on." 


378  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

They  say  Prince  Silverwings  is  going  cheap; 
That  Buccaneer  amounts  to  quite  a  heap; 

And  also  that  Fort  Hunter  —  mark  my  words  — 
Is  not  the  Pony  that  will  go  to  sleep. 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  looks  so  Black 
The  Race  as  when  I  see  the  awful  Track 

In  Sunday's  Paper  with  the  winner's  name 
In  great,  big  Letters.     O,  Alas!    Alack  1 

This  favorite  who  prances  on  the  Green 
Is  just  about  the  best  I  've  ever  seen. 

Ah,  gaze  upon  him  lightly,  for  who  knows? 
He  may  not  come  in  One,  Two,  Seventeen. 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  wise  he  who  Forgets 
To  hold  Post-Mortem,  full  of  vain  Regrets. 
The  Bet  you  placed  to-day  at  ten  o'clock 
Is  gone  with  Yesteryear's  Sev'n  Thousand  Bets. 

Myself  when  young  did  frequently  frequent 
The  Track  where  myriad  Ponies  came  and  went. 

I  never  picked  a  Winner  in  my  Life. 
I  don't  believe  I  ever  Cashed  a  Cent. 

Strange,  is  it  not,  that  of  the  thousands  who 
Before  us  passed  this  Race  Track  entrance  through 

Not  one  returns  to  tell  us  of  the  Race? 
Nobody  's  ever  seen  it  yet.     Have  YOU? 

What!  out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
Another  bet?    Oh,  no;  it  is  no  Joke. 

What  unpermitted  pleasures  do  you  dream  — 
But  what 's  the  good  of  anything,  if  broke. 

And  when,  O  Derby  Winner,  you  shall  pass 
Among  the  other  Ponies  on  the  Grass, 

Give  me  a  passing  thought  —  nay,  neigh  for  me 
Who  never  won  a  single  bet.     Alas! 

FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS. 

A  SAD  STORY 

THERE  were  two  young  ladies  from  Birmingham, 
And  this  the  sad  story  concerning  'em: 

They  stuck  needles  and  pins 

In  the  right  reverend  shins 
Of  the  bishop  while  he  was  confirming  'em. 

ANONYMOUS. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  379 

THE  NEW  STENOGRAPHER 

I  HAVE  a  new  stenographer  —  she  came  to  work  to-day, 

She  told  me  that  she  wrote  the  latest  system. 
Two  hundred  words  a  minute  seemed  to  her,  she  said,  like  play, 

And  word  for  word  at  that  ! —  she  never  missed  'em! 
I  gave  her  some  dictation  —  a  letter  to  a  man — 
And  this,  as  I  remember  it,  was  how  the  letter  ran: 

"Dear  Sir:  I  have  your  favor,  and  in  reply  would  state 
That  I  accept  the  offer  in  yours  of  recent  date. 
I  wish  to  say,  however,  that  under  no  condition 
Can  I  afford  to  think  of  your  free  lance  proposition. 

I  shall  begin  to-morrow  to  turn  the  matter  out; 
The  copy  will  be  ready  by  August  10th,  about. 
Material  of  this  nature  should  not  be  rushed  unduly. 
Thanking  you  for  your  favor,  I  am,  yours,  very  truly." 

She  took  it  down  in  shorthand  with  apparent  ease  and  grace; 

She  did  n't  call  me  back  all  in  a  flurry. 
Thought  I:  "At  last  I  have  a  girl  worth  keeping  'round  the 

place"; 

Then  said:  "Now  write  it  out — you  needn't  hurry." 
The  typewriter  she  tackled  —  now  and  then  she  struck  a  key, 
And  after  thirty  minutes  this  is  what  she  handed  me: 

"Deer  sir,  I  have  the  Feever,  and  in  a  Pile  i  Sit 
And  I  except  the  Offer  as  you  have  reasoned  it, 
I  wish  to  see  however  That  under  any  condition 
can  I  for  to  Think  of  a  free  lunch  Preposishun? 
I  Shal  be  in  tomorrow  To.,  turn  the  mother  out, 
The  cap  will  be  red  and  Will  costt,  $10,  about. 
Mateeriul  of  this  nation  should  not  rust  N.  Dooley, 
Thinking  you  have  the  Feever  I  am  Yours  very  Truely." 

ANONYMOUS. 

A  THOUGHT 

IF  all  the  harm  that  women  have  done 
Were  put  in  a  bundle  and  rolled  into  one,      . 

Earth  would  not  hold  it, 

The  sky.  could  not  enfold  it, 
It  could  not  be  lighted  nor  warmed  by  the  sun; 

Such  masses  of  evil 

Would  puzzle  the  devil 
And  keep  him  in  fuel  while  Time's  wheels  run. 


380  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

But  if  all  the  harm  that 's  done  by  men 
Were  doubled  and  doubled  and  doubled  again, 
And  melted  and  fused  into  vapor  and  then 
Were  squared  and  raised  to  the  power  of  ten, 
There  would  n't  be  nearly  enough,  not  near, 
To  keep  a  small  girl  for  the  tenth  of  a  year. 

JAMES  KENNETH  STEPHEN. 

CARGOES 

QUINQUIREME  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 
Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 
Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet  white  wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 
Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts, 
Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smokestack, 
Butting  through  the  Channel  in  the  mad  March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 

Road-rails,  pig-lead, 
Firewood,  ironware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 

THE  ROUGH  RIDER   TO  HIS  GIRL 

I  AM  lying  in  my  tent,  Sweet  Marie, 
And  my  soul  with  rage  is  pent  —  up  in  G; 

For  I  know  almighty  well  you  have  caught  another  fel, 
And  your  thoughts  no  longer  dwell,  love,  with  me. 

When  we  kissed  a  last  good-by  —  tearfully  — 
You  but  worked  a  girlish  guy  off  on  me. 

O  you  sweet,  bewitching  jade,  what  a  clever  game  you  played, 
For  your  tears  were  ready  made,  Sweet  Marie. 

When  I  donned  the  soldier  blue,  Sweet  Marie, 
Like  a  picnic  woodtick  you  stuck  to  me; 

And  the  smile  you  used  to  wear  was  as  full  of  gleaming  glare 
As  a  sunbeam  on  a  tear,  Sweet  Marie. 

How  your  cunning  head  you  'd  lay  —  lovingly  — 
On  my  bosom,  while  you  'd  say  things  to  me; 

There  you  'd  rest  in  loving  pose,  right  beneath  my  very  nose, 
Swiping  buttons  from  my  clothes,  Sweet  Marie. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  381 

To  the  Cuban  isle  I  go,  Sweet  Marie, 
Where  the  tropic  sun  will  glow  over  me; 

And  I  '11  wander  through  the  dells  with  the  dusky  Cuban  belles, 
Who  are  dressed  in  beads  and  shells,  scantily. 

There  your  face  I  '11  soon  forget,  Sweet  Marie  — 
I  '11  be  frisky,  you  can  bet,  as  a  flea  — 

I  '11  be  giddy,  I  '11  be  gay,  I  will  sing  the  hours  away  — 
Ta-ra-ra-ra  boom  de-ay!     Hully  Gee! 

ANONYMOUS. 

TROUBLOUS  TIMES 

WE  'VE  had  a  social  squabble  down  to  Pohick  on  the  crick. 
It 's  goin'  to  smash  the  town,  unless  it 's  settled  purty  quick. 
It  were  an  ice  cream  festival  as  started  all  the  strife, 
'Twas  Mrs.  Jabez  Jopples  who  exclaimed,  "To  save  my  life 
I  can't  see  how  it  was  that  Sallie  Swoggins  come  to  be 
Picked  out  to  have  the  ice  cream  helped  to  her  ahead  o'  me, 
When  everybody  livin'  in  the  county  shorely  knows 
That  we  could  buy  and  sell  the  Swoggins  family,  if  we  chose!" 

Now,  Jabez  and  Sam  Swoggins  has  been  friends  for  many  a  year; 
An'  they  're  cut  up  'bout  this  quarrel;  but  they  're  skeered  to 

interfere. 

An'  all  the  other  women  folks  are  started  —  that 's  the  wust! 
Whenever  there  's  a  party  each  one  wants  her  victuals  first. 
An'  the  men  folks,  they  are  gettin'  so  uneasy  'bout  the  fray 
They  dass  n't  stop  a  minute,  jes'  to  pass  the  time  o'  day. 
This  "social  precedence"  has  got  us  worried  till  we  're  sick, 
An'  there  ain't  no  joy  in  livin'  up  to  Pohick  on  the  crick. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  DANCE  AT  THE  LITTLE  GIL  A  RANCH 

GIT  yo'  little  fillies  ready; 

Trot  'em  out  upon  the  floor  — 
Line  up  there,  you  cusses!     Steady! 

Lively  now!     One  couple  more. 
Shorty,  shed  that  ol'  sombrero! 

Bronco,  douse  that  cigarette! 
Stop  yer  cussin',  Casinero, 

'Fore  the  ladies!     Now,  all  set! 
Salute  yer  ladies;  all  together! 

Ladies  opposite  the  same; 
Hit  the  lumber  with  yer  leather! 

Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  dame! 
Bunch  the  heifers  in  the  middle! 

Circle,  stags,  an'  do-se-do  — . 


382  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Pay  attention  to  the  fiddle! 

Swing  her  round  an'  off  you  go! 
First  four  forward!     Back  to  places! 

Second  follow!     Shuffle  back! 
Now  you  've  got  it  down  to  cases! 

Swing  'em  till  their  trotters  crack! 
Gents  all  right  a  heel  an'  toein'! 

Swing  'em;  kiss  'em  if  you  kin! 
On  to  the  next  an'  keep  a-goin' ! 

Till  yo'  hit  yer  pards  agin' ! 
Gents  to  centre;  ladies  round  'em, 

Form  a  basket;  balance  all! 
Whirl  yer  gals  to  where  yo'  found  'em! 

Promenade  around  the  hall! 
Balance  to  yer  pards  an'  trot  'em 

Round  the  circle  double  quick! 
Grab  and  kiss  'em  while  you  've  got  'em! 

Hold  'em  to  it  if  they  kick! 
Ladies,  left  hand  to  yer  sonnies! 

Alaman!     Grand  right  an'  left! 
Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  homes  — 

Pick  'em  up  an'  feel  their  heft! 
Promenade  like  skeery  cattle! 

Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  sweets! 
Shake  yer  spurs  an'  make  'em  rattle! 

Keno!     Promenade  to  seats. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ANGELINA 

WHEN  de  fiddle  gits  to  singing  out  a  ole  Vahginny  reel, 
An'  you  'mence  to  feel  a  ticklin'  in  yo'  toe  an'  in  yo'  heel; 
Ef  you  t'ink  you  got  u'ligion  an'  you  wants  to  keep  it  too, 
You  jes'  bettah  tek  a  hint  an'  git  yo'se'f  clean  out  o'  view. 
Case  de  time  is  mighty  temptin'  when  de  chune  is  in  de  swing, 
Fu'  a  darky,  saint  or  sinner  man,  to  cut  de  pigeon-wing, 
An'  you  could  n't  he'p  f 'om  dancin'  ef  yo'  feet  was  boun'  wif 

twine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

Don't  you  know  Miss  Angelina?    She  's  de  da'lin'  of  de  place. 
W'y,  dey  ain't  no  high-tone  lady  wif  sich  mannahs  an'  sich  grace. 
She  kin  move  across  de  cabin  wif  its  planks  all  rough  an'  wo' 
Jes'  de  same  's  ef  she  was  dancin'  on  ol'  Mistus'  ball-room  flo'  — 
Fact  is,  you  don'  see  no  cabin,  —  evaht'ing  you  see  look  grand, 
An'  dat  ol'  squeaky  fiddle  soun'  to  you  jes'  lak  a  ban'; 
Cotton  breeches  looks  lak  broad-clof  an'  a  linsy  dress  look  fine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  383 

Some  folks  say  dat  dancin'    's  sinful,  an'  de  blessed  Lawd,  dey 

say, 

Gwine  to  purnish  us  fu'  steppin'  when  we  hyeah  de  music  play. 
But  I  tell  you,  I  don'  b'lieve  it,  fu'  de  Lawd  is  wise  an'  good, 
An'  He  made  de  banjo's  metal  an'  He  made  de  fiddle's  wood, 
An'  He  made  de  music  in  dem,  so  I  don'  quite  t'ink  He  '11  keer 
Ef  our  feet  keeps  time  a  little  to  de  melodies  we  hyeah. 
Wy  dey  's  somef'n  downright  holy  in  de  way  our  faces  shine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

Angelina  step  so  gentle,  Angelina  bow  so  low, 
An'  she  lif  huh  sku't  so  dainty  dat  huh  shoe-top  skacely  show; 
An'  dem  teef  o'  huh'n  a-shinin',  ez  she  tek  you  by  de  ban'  — 
Go  'way,  people,  dain't  anothah  sich  a  lady  in  de  Ian'! 
When  she  's  movin'  thoo  de  figgers  er  a  dancin'  by  huhse'f, 
Folks  jes  stan'  stock-still  a-sta'in',  an'  dey  mos'  nigh  hoi's  dey 

bref; 
An'  de  young  mens,  dey  's  a-sayin',  "I's  gwine  mek  dat  damsel 

mine," 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR. 

LINES   TO  A   GARDEN  HOSE 

SPRINKLE,  sprinkle,  little  hose 
(You  can't  help  it,  I  suppose) ; 
The  unsodded,  fruitful  dirt 
Sodden  with  thy  sudden  squirt! 

Squirt  and  sprinkle,  gentle  hose, 
Drowning  less  torrential  woes; 
Giving  merry  worms  their  drink, 
Softly  squirtle,  sweetly  sprink! 

As  in  other,  larger  floods 
Rainbows  glint  thy  fertile  muds, 
So,  assured  of  final  calm, 
Through  thy  nozzle  pour  thy  balm! 

Make  the  sidewalk  and  the  street 
Moist  for  parched  and  weary  feet; 
Keep  thy  rivulets  a-flow, 
Tripping  each  fantastic  toe; 

Seek  thy  brethren  on  the  limb, 
Fetching  them  into  the  swim; 
Till,  as  each  doth  pass  the  fence 
Scattering  his  eloquence, 


384  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

TJttereth  each  a  single  note, 
Like  thee,  from  his  liquid  throat, 
And  the  idlest,  as  she  goes, 
Darns  the  customary  hose! 

Then,  thy  simple  duty  done, 
Quit,  as  erstwhile  quits  the  sun, 
With  the  other  hoes  to  bed, 
Coiling  in  thy  shadowy  shed! 

Gardeners  proclaim  thy  praise, 
Children  love  thy  childlike  ways: 
May  we,  like  them,  learn  from  thee 
Irresponsibility! 

ANONYMOUS. 

SHINDIG  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

SHINDIG  in  the  country, 

"Git  your  places  all!" 
Nothin'  been  doin' 

Since  'way  last  fall. 
Children  on  the  stairway, 

Fiddler  on  the  box, 
Caller  in  the  middle, 

Yelpin'  like  a  fox. 
"Shanghai,  git  your  Banty  — 

Lordy,  but  you  're  tall  — 
Swing  'em  to  their  places  — 

An' balance  All!" 

Soon  as  it  is  over, 

Partners  for  a  waltz! 
Half  a  dozen  couples, 

Fiddler  never  halts. 
Partners  for  a  shottish, 

Time  a  little  fast, 
Collars  gittin'  hottish, 

Doubt  if  they  '11  last. 
Handkerchiefs  inside  'em, 

Nex'  is  Ladies'  Choice  — 
That 's  the  thing  that  makes  a 

Feller's  heart  rejoice. 

"Bluebird  in  the  centre  'n' 

Seven  han's  round, 
Swing  'em  to  their  places  'n' 

Everybody  pound! 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  385 

Balance  to  your  Honey, 

Alaman,  I  say  — 
Run  an'  git  your  Guinny, 

An'  all  Chaw  Hay! 
Come  ahead,  my  Lady, 

That 's  the  proper  thing  — 
On  to  the  next,  balance 

All  —  Cheat  or  Swing!" 

Now  the  older  people, 

Have  their  set  alone; 
Show  young  folks  some  things 

That  they  've  never  known. 
Gran'pap's  carpet  slippers 

Gratin'  as  they  go, 
Gran'ma  doesy-doin' 

Same  as  long  ago. 
Young  folk  all  a-gigglin', 

Children  snickerin',  too; 
Gran'pap  cuts  the  pigeon-wing, 

Sorry  when  they  're  through! 

Supper  now  is  ready, 

Coffee  float  a  stone, 
Ham  and  bread  an'  butter, 

Best  you  've  ever  known. 
Punkin  pie  and  pickles, 

Jelly  cake  in  layers  — 
Nothin'  any  better  'n 

Country  bill-o'-fares. 
Cider  jug  a  passin', 

Kind  o'  bitey,  too  — 
Candy  hearts,  with  somethin' 

Like,  "I  Love  You!" 

Now  for  "Old  Dan  Tucker," 

Young  an'  old  an'  small, 
Everybody  singin', 

Dancin'  one  an'  all. 
Gran'pap  with  a  youngin, 

Gran'ma  with  one,  too; 
Everybody  cuttin'  up  — 

Monkey  shinin'  you! 
Then  a  waltz  an'  shottish, 

Polka,  toe-an'-heel, 
One  more  just  to  close  with  — 

Ole  Virginny  reel! 


386  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

Drivin'  home  a-flyin', 

Singin'  as  they  go; 
Holler  to  each  other  — 

Hear  the  Roosters  Crow! 
Drivin'  past  the  Parson's, 

Wonder  what  he  '11  say? 
All  be  out  to  meetin', 

Hear  it  anyway! 
Home  at  last,  an'  sleepy, 

Puttin'  in  the  rig  — 
Nothin'  in  the  city 

Like  the  Old  Shin-dig! 

D.  A.  ELLSWORTH. 

THE  FLATTER'S  LAMENT 

SEARCH,  search,  search 

For  a  flat  that 's  fit  for  me  — 
That 's  not  too  high  nor  yet  too  low  — 

I  would  that  one  I  'd  see! 

From  early  Monday  morn 

Till  late  on  Saturday  night 
I  walked  and  talked  and  booked  and  looked  — 

And  nothing  has  come  right! 

They  won't  take  children  here; 

Some  bedrooms  have  no  air; 
This  one  's  too  large  and  that  too  small  — 

There  are  no  set  tubs  there. 

So,  it 's  search,  search,  search 

In  mute  expectancy, 
But  the  house  I  had  with  the  big  front  yard 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  BREAKFAST  FOOD  FAMILY 

JOHN  SPRATT  will  eat  no  fat, 

Nor  will  he  touch  the  lean, 
He  scorns  to  eat  of  any  meat; 

He  lives  upon  Foodine. 

But  Mrs.  Spratt  will  none  of  that; 

Foodine  she  cannot  eat. 
Her  special  wish  is  for  a  dish 

Of  Expurgated  Wheat. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  387 

To  William  Spratt  that  food  is  fat 

On  which  his  master  dotes. 
His  favorite  feed  —  his  special  need  — 

Is  Eata  Heapa  Oats. 

But  sister  Lil  can't  see  how  Will 

Can  touch  such  tasteless  food. 
As  breakfast  fare  it  can't  compare, 

She  says,  with  Shredded  Wood. 

Now  none  of  these  Leander  please; 

He  feeds  upon  Bath  Mitts. 
While  sister  Jane  improves  her  brain 

With  Cero-Grapo-Grits. 

Lycurgus  votes  for  Father's  Oats; 

Proggine  appeals  to  May; 
The  junior  John  subsists  upon 

Uneeda  Bayla  Hay. 

Corrected  Wheat  for  little  Pete, 
Flaked  Pine  for  Dot;  while  "Bub," 

The  infant  Spratt,  is  waxing  fat 
On  Battle  Creek  Near-Grub. 

BERT  LESTON  TAYLOR. 

THE  THIRD  PERSON 

I  KNOW  a  man  (accounted  wise) 

Who  thinks  himself  an  ancient  make 

Of  musket.     Breakfast  food  supplies 

His  powder,  and  a  Hamburg  steak 

The  bullet,  while  a  flannel-cake 

Acts  as  the  wadding.     Then  away 

He  shoots  for  all  that  fighting  day; 

Shoots  to  his  car,  shoots  to  his  work, 

Shoots  here,  shoots  there, 

Shoots  everywhere 

A  dollar  may  be  thought  to  lurk; 

Shoots  out  to  luncheon,  shoots  to  drink, 

Shoots  home  at  night,  too  tired  to  think, 

Shoots  through  the  news,  and,  spent  at  last, 

Drops,  thankful  that  the  day  is  past. 

For  all  this  stress  from  dawn  to  sleep 

He  gets  his  victuals,  clothes,  and  keep. 

Ho!     Ho!     A  foolish  man  is  he. 

(And  very  much  like  you  and  me.) 

EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 


388  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

EVOLUTION 

FRESH  from  the  griddle's  warm  embrace 

It  smokes  before  the  ravished  sight, 
A  dash  of  Indian  in  its  face, 

All  golden  brown,  all  liquid  light, 
While  from  a  hundred  tiny  cells 

The  sirup  glints  in  amber  foam, 
And  forth  the  melting  butter  wells 

As  honey  oozing  from  the  comb. 
Each  morsel,  like  a  Houri's  kiss, 

Melts  at  the  lip  'a  fairy  flake 
To  grace  thine  apotheosis, 

Ambrosial  vision  —  buckwheat  cake! 

HARRY  THURSTON  PECK. 

NO  DYSPEPTICS  NEED  APPLY 

IT  's  late,  perhaps,  for  cherry  pie, 

But  just  in  time  for  berry  pie, 
For  goose,  and  rasp,  and  huckleberry  temptingly  in  reach; 

And  on  the  vines  now  flowing  free 

Are  squash  and  pumpkins  growing  free; 
And  now  pan-dowdies  are  in  style,  and  cobblers  made  of  peach. 

The  radiant  fruits  so  fair  to  see, 

The  flaky  crust  that 's  there  to  see, 
Afford  a  luscious  spectacle  most  fair  to  mortal  eyes; 

But  better  worth  the  taking  there 

Than  all  the  pastry  baking  there 
And  sweeter  far  is  Mary  in  the  kitchen  making  pies. 

ANONYMOUS. 

GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GEORGIA 

YASSIR,  I  'm  a  northern  coon, 

But  wate'million's  jus'  mah  size  — 

What 's  de  news  from  Georgy? 
Ripe  in  de  sun  an'  ripe  in  de  moon, 
Oh,  Lo'dy,  how  dat  fruit  I  prize  — 
What 's  de  news  from  Georgy? 

An'  it  may  be  no'th  an'  it  may  be  south, 
But  dey  's  one  thing  stops  de  bigges'  mouth, 
An'  de  crop  am  good  an'  de  price  am  low  — 
An'  al  de  cullud  folks  dey  know 

Dat  dat 's  de  news  from  Georgy. 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  389 

I  am  black  an'  so  's  de  seed; 

Mah  gal 's  sweet,  de  million  's  sweet  — 

What 's  de  news  from  Georgy? 
Flash  so  red  it  like  to  bleed  — 

But  no  gal 's  good  enough  to  eat  — 
What 's  de  news  from  Georgy? 

Oh,  I  '11  sing  mah  song  an'  smoke  mah  pipe, 
An'  summer  's  come  when  de  million's  ripe; 
Dey  's  ripe  and  plenty  down  below 
An'  all  de  cullud  folks  dey  know 

Dat  dat  's  de  news  from  Georgy. 

ANONYMOUS. 

DE  BELLE  OB  EBONVILLE 

I  AIN'T  no  tantalizin'  brown, 

I  'se  jest  as  black  es  I  kin  be; 
But  yet  de  boys  all  hangs  aroun'  — 

Somehow  dey  likes  to  visit  me. 

Sometimes  es  hlsjh  es  two  and  three, 
Besides  ma  bestes'  feller  Bill, 

Calls  roun'  at  once,  bekase,  yo'  see, 
I  is  de  belle  ob  Ebonville. 

I  cain't  play  notes  lak  Mandy  Brown  — 

Ef  I  should  touch  an  organ  key 
I  would  n't  know  what  note  hit  soun', 

I  don't  keer  'bout  no  harmony; 

Yet  all  de  boys  roun'  heah  agree 
Dat  I'  se  de  only  gal  kin  fill 

De  de-mands  ob  sassiety; 
I  is  de  belle  ob  Ebonville. 

Night  time  I  allus  kin  be  foun' 

A-fixin'  fo'  ma  company; 
All  drest  up  in  ma  gingham  gown 

I  settles  down  to  po'  de  tea; 

Ob  nice  hot  chicken  fricassee 
Dey  all  sits  down  an'  eats  to  kill, 

An'  den  we  has  a  jubilee; 
I  is  de  belle  ob  Ebonville. 

L'Envoi 

Gals,  you  might  hab  mo'  pedigree 

Dan  I  has  ever  seed,  but  still 
Since  you  just  kinnot  cook  like  me 

I  is  de  belle  ob  Ebonville. 

HENRY  DAVIS  MIDDLETON. 


390  THE    HUMBLER   POETS 

HOCHl  DER  KAISER! 

DER  Kaiser  of  dis  Fatherland 
Und  Gott  on  high  all  things  command, 
Ve  two  —  ach!     Don't  you  understand? 
Myself  —  und  Gott! 

Vile  some  men  sing  der  power  divine 
Mein  soldiers  sing  "Die  Wacht  am  Rhein," 
Und  drink  der  health  in  Rhenish  wine 
Of  Me  — und  Gott! 

Dere  's  France,  she  swaggers  all  aroundt, 
She  's  ausgespielt,  of  no  account. 
To  much  we  think  she  don't  amount; 
Myself  —  und  Gott! 

She  vill  not  dare  to  fight  again, 
But  if  she  shouldt,  I  '11  show  her  blain 
Dot  Elsass  und  (in  French)  Lorraine 
Are  mein  —  by  Gott! 

Dere  's  Grandma  dinks  she  's  nicht  small  beer, 
Midt  Boers  und  such  she  interfere! 
She  '11  learn  none  owns  dis  hemisphere 
But  me  —  und  Gott! 

She  dinks,  good  frau,  some  ships  she  's  got 
Und  soldiers  midt  der  scarlet  goat. 
Ach!    We  could  knock  dem!     Pouf!     Like  dot, 
Myself  —  mit  Gott! 

In  dimes  of  peace  brebare  for  wars, 
I  bear  der  spear  und  helm  of  Mars, 
Und  care  not  for  den  thousand  Czars, 
Myself —  mit  Gott! 

In  fact,  I  humor  efery  vhim, 
With  aspect  dark  and  visage  grim; 
Gott  pulls  mit  Me  und  I  mit  him, 
Myself —  und  Gott! 

RODNEY  BLAKE. 
AN  EPITAPH 

BENEATH  this  quiet,  turfy, 

And  flower-scented  green 
Lies  Arabella  Murphy, 

As  usual  —  Kerosene. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  391 

POOR  MOTHER* 

WHEN  Mother  was  a  little  girl, 

Now  many  years  ago, 
She  had  to  mind  her  P's  and  Q's, 

She  had  to  walk  just  so; 
And  if  her  mother  said,  "Be  quiet!" 

She  did  n't  dare  say  "Booh!" 
For  fear  they  'd  send  her  off  to  bed,  — 

Without  her  supper,  too. 

When  Mother  grew  to  womanhood, 

And  got  her  children,  then 
She  found  the  fashion  turned  around,  — 

She  had  to  mind  again: 
To-day  it 's  Margaret,  Jean,  and  Jane 

Who  do  the  talking,  and 
Poor  Mother  does  n't  dare  say  "Booh!" 

Except  upon  command. 

WILLIAM  WALLACE  WHITELOCK. 

WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

IN  letters  large  upon  the  frame, 

That  visitors  might  see, 
The  painter  placed  his  humble  name: 

O'Callaghan  McGee. 

And  from  Beersheba  unto  Dan, 

The  critics  with  a  nod 
Exclaimed:  "This  painting  Irishman 

Adores  his  native  sod. 

"His  stout  heart's  patriotic  flame 
There  's  naught  on  earth  can  quell; 

He  takes  no  wild  romantic  name 
To  make  his  pictures  sell." 

Then  poets  praised  in  sonnets  neat 

His  stroke  so  bold  and  free; 
No  parlor  wall  was  thought  complete 

That  had  n't  a  McGee! 

All  patriots  before  McGee 

Threw  lavishly  their  gold; 
His  works  in  the  Academy 

Were  very  quickly  sold. 

:  Published  in  The  National  Magazine,  Boston,  for  August,  1902. 


392  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

His  "Digging  Clams  at  Barnegat," 
His  "When  the  Morning  Smiled," 

His  "Seven  Miles  from  Ararat," 
His  "Portrait  of  a  Child," 

Were  purchased  in  a  single  day 
And  lauded  as  divine.  — 


That  night  as  in  his  atelier 
The  painter  sipped  his  wine, 

And  looked  upon  his  gilded  frames, 

He  grinned  from  ear  to  ear :  — 
"They  little  think  my  real  name  's 

V.  Stuyvesant  De  Vere!" 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MTJNKITTRICK. 

THE  WRECK  OF   THE  JULIE  PLANTE 

ON  wan  dark  night  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

De  win'  she  blow,  blow,  blow, 
An'  de  crew  of  de  wood-scow  Julie  Plante 

Got  scar't  an'  run  below; 
For  de  win'  she  blow  lak  hurricane, 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
An'  de  scow  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 

De  Captinne  walk  on  de  fronte  deck, 

An'  walk  de  hin'  deck,  too  — 
He  call  de  crew  from  up  de  hole 

He  call  de  cook  also. 
De  cook  she  is  name'  Rosie, 

She  come  from  Montreal, 
Was  chambre  maid  on  lumber  barge, 

On  de  Grande  Lachine  Canal. 

De  win'  she  blow  from  nor'  —  eas'  —  wes'  — 

De  sout'  win'  she  blow,  too, 
W'en  Rosie  cry  "Mon  cher  Captinne, 

Mon  cher,  w'at  I  shall  do?" 
Den  de  Captinne  t'row  de  big  ankerre, 

But  still  de  scow  she  dreef, 
De  crew  he  can't  pass  on  de  shore, 

Becos'  he  los'  hees  skeef . 

De  night  was  dark,  lak'  one  black  cat, 

De  wave  run  high  an'  fas', 
W'en  de  Captinne  tak'  de  Rosie  girl 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  393 

An'  tie  her  to  de  mas'; 
Den  he  also  tak'  de  life  preserve, 

An'  jomp  off  on  de  lak', 
An'  say,  "Good  by,  ma  Rosie  dear, 

I  go  drown  for  your  sak'." 

Nex'  morning  very  early, 

'Bout  ha'f-pas'  two  —  free  —  four  — 
De  Gaptinne,  scow,  an'  de  poor  Rosie 

Was  corpses  on  de  shore; 
For  the  win'  she  blow  lak'  hurricane 

Bimeby  she  blow  some  more, 
An'  the  scow  bus'  up  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

Wan  arpent  from  de  shore. 

Moral 
Now,  all  good  wood-scow  sailor  man 

Tak'  warning  by  dat  storm, 
An'  go  an'  marry  some  nice  French  girl 

An'  leev  on  wan  beeg  farm; 
De  win'  can  blow  lak  hurricane, 

An'  s'pose  she  blow  some  more, 
You  can't  get  drown  on  Lac  St.  Pierre, 

So  long  you  stay  on  shore. 

WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

THE  FLEETING  VISITANT 

THESE  parting  words  we  have  to  say 

Are  painful  to  endure; 
Each  dollar  bill  that  comes  my  way 

Seems  on  its  farewell  tour. 

ANONYMOUS. 

IN  A   QUIET  NEIGHBORHOOD 

I  WAS  not  well  the  other  day, 

And  therefore  thought  at  home  to  stay  — 
I  live  upon  a  quiet  little  street  — 

And  there  in  peaceful  calm  remain 

Until  I  felt  quite  strong  again 
My  daily  tasks  to  undertake  and  meet. 

I  'd  lain  down  half  a  minute,  when 

A  pair  of  vegetable  men 
Began  explaining  what  they  had  to  sell; 

And  then  the  cry  of  "Rags!"  was  heard, 

"Old  iron!"  all  my  nerves  bestirred, 
"Umbrellas  here  to  mend!"    "Fresh  fish!"  they  yell. 


394  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Somebody  with  a  clarinet, 

A  dinner  gong  I  can't  forget, 
Ten  million  motors  on  the  boulevard, 

The  parrot  of  the  neighborhood, 

A  load  of  coal,  a  load  of  wood, 
And  then  the  girl  who  's  taking  "vocal"  —  hard! 

And  so,  poor  I,  who  'd  thought  to  rest 

Within  a  home  by  quiet  blest, 
Arose,  still  feeling  indisposed  and  ill, 

And  just  to  get  an  hour's  peace 

Went  where  those  city  noises  cease  — 
Back  to  my  labor  in  the  rolling-mill. 

ANONYMOUS. 

IF  1   SHOULD  DIE  TO-NIGHT 

IP  I  should  die  to-night, 

And  you  should  come  to  my  cold  corpse  and  say, 
Weeping  and  heartsick,  o'er  my  lifeless  clay  —  . 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 

And  you  should  come  in  deepest  grief  and  woe, 
And  say,  "Here  's  that  ten  dollars  that  I  owe," 

I  might  arise  in  my  large  white  cravat, 

And  say,  "What 's  that?" 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 

And  you  should  come  to  my  cold  corpse  and  kneel, 
Clasping  the  bier  to  show  the  grief  you  feel; 

I  say,  if  I  should  die  to-night, 
And  you  should  come  to  me,  and  there  and  then, 
Just  even  hint  'bout  paying  me  that  ten, 
I  might  arise  the  while,  but  I  'd  drop  dead  again. 

IN  DEFENCE  OF  THE  ADVERTISING  MUSE 

Shakespeare  speaks: 

SOMETIMES  when  I  'm  not  at  work  on  a  play 

Historic  and  full  of  warfare, 
I  try  my  hand,  in  a  casual  way, 

At  an  ad.  to  keep  me  in  carfare. 

Why  should  n't  I  praise  the  bilious  pill 

And  in  loftiest  numbers  chirrup, 
And  make  the  popular  heartstrings  thrill 

With  a  poem  on  soothing  syrup? 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  395 

Why  should  n't  I  cleave  the  cloudless  dome 
Through  the  billow  of  light  that 's  polar, 

To  rhapsodize  on  Excelsior  Foam 
That  preserves  the  fleeting  molar? 

Sing  ho!  for  the  laurels  won  by  me 

On  the  lotion  prepared  for  freckles! 
My  harp  sha'n't  hang  on  the  willow  tree 

While  the  soap  muse  brings  me  shekels. 

For  I  know  in  a  general  sort  of  way, 
While  with  laughter  I  'm  sorely  shaken, 

That  the  critics  will  rise  in  their  might  and  say 
That  they  all  were  written  by  Bacon. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 

MY  RECTOR 

I  NEVER  see  my  rector's  eyes; 

He  hides  their  light  divine; 
For,  when  he  prays,  he  shuts  his  own, 

And,  when  he  preaches,  mine. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  TRUST  AND   THE  TRUSTEE 

(A  Song  for  the  Time) 

IF  a  trustee  in  trusting  doth  trust  him  a  trust, 
In  trusting  the  trust  thus  three  things  he  intrusts: 
The  truster,  thing  trusted,  and  cestui  que  trust  — 
Two  trusts,  too,  he  's  trusting  in  trusting  this  trust  — 
With  those  three  things  intrusted  in  trust  to  the  trust, 
The  trust  in  him  trusted  and  the  trust  he  intrusts. 

Now  those  three  things  he  's  trusted  and  these  two  things  in 

trust 

By  the  trustee  intrusted  through  trust  in  the  trusts 
That  most  trusters  in  trusting  trust  their  trustees  to  trust, 
Are  in  trust  because  trusty,  trustworthy  this  trust  — 
Or  through  other  trusts  trusted  by  trustees  in  trust 
And  trustworthily  treated  by  the  trusts  that  they  trust. 

But  if  trustless,  untrusty,  trustworthless  this  trust 
That  the  trustee  trusts  trusts  to  through  too  trusting  a  trust 
In  the  trusts  he  's  intrusted  to  trust  with  a  trust, 
Then  the  truster,  things  trusted,  and  the  cestui  que  trust, 
And  the  trust  in  trusts  trusted,  and  the  too  trusting  trust, 
And  the  trust  that  he  trusted,  and  the  trustee  —  they  bust. 

ANONYMOUS. 


396  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

BILL'S  IN  TROUBLE 

I  'VE  got  a  letter,  parson,  from  my  son,  away  out  west, 

An'  my  ol'  heart  is  heavy  as  an  anvil  in  my  breast, 

To  think  the  boy  whose  futur'  I  had  once  so  proudly  planned 

Should  wander  from  the  path  o'  right  an'  come  to  sich  an  end. 

I  told  him  when  he  started  out  toward  the  settin'  sun 

He  'd  find  the  row  he  had  to  hoe  a  mighty  rocky  one, 

He  'd  miss  his  father's  counsel  an'  his  mother's  prayers,  too, 

But  he  said  the  farm  was  hateful  an'  he  guessed  he  'd  have  to  go. 

I  know  there  's  big  temptation  for  a  youngster  in  the  West, 
But  I  believed  our  Billy  had  the  courage  to  resist, 
An'  when  he  left  I  told  him  of  the  ever-waitin'  snares 
That  lie  like  hidden  serpents  in  life's  pathway  everywheres. 
But  Bill  he  promised  faithful  to  be  keerful  an'  allowed 
He  'd  build  a  reputation  that  'd  make  us  mighty  proud, 
But  it  seems  as  how  my  counsel  sort  o'  faded  from  his  mind, 
And  now  the  boy  's  in  trouble  of  the  very  wustest  kind. 

His  letters  come  so  seldom  that  we  somehow  sort  o'  knowed 

That  Billy  was  a-trampin'  in  a  mighty  rocky  road, 

But  never  once  imagined  he  would  bow  my  head  in  shame 

An'  in  the  dust  'd  waller  his  ol'  daddy's  honored  name. 

He  writes  from  out  in  Denver,  an'  the  letter  's  mighty  short  — • 

I  just  cain't  tell  his  mother.     It  will  break  her  poor  ol'  heart. 

An'  so  I  reckoned,  parson,  you  might  break  the  news  to  her  — 

Bill 's  in  the  legislatur,  but  he  does  n't  say  what  fur. 

JAMES  BARTON  ADAMS. 

A   BALLAD  OF  MODERN  FABLES 

ALL  ye  who  read  of  lovers'  lore  — 

Of  Abelard  and  Heloise  — 
How  Aucassin  in  days  of  yore 

His  Nicolette  sought  sore  to  please  — 
How  various  other  hes  and  shes 

For  Love  their  very  lives  have  paid; 
Put  by  your  tearful  threnodies 

And  read  the  Fables  of  George  Ade. 

And  ye  who  read  of  joust  and  war  — 

How  "Gude  King  Arthure  wonne  ye  grees"  — 
How  "Launcelot  wolde  fayn  spill  gore 

On  hym  that  Tristram  night"  —  how  "  these 
Wight  knightes  wolde  then  drayne  to  ye  lees 

Ye  stirrup-cup."     O  story  frayed ! 
O  Malory,  to  yon  tall  trees 

And  read  the  Fables  of  George  Ade! 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  397 

And  ye  who  read  how  men  explore 

And  sail  the  frigid  Northern  Seas: 
(I  deem  such  stuff  an  awful  bore  — 

I  let  'em  drown!     I  let  'em  freeze!) 
And  Doctors  who  read  of  Disease; 

Professors  who  through  theses  wade: 
Cut  Latin,  Hebrew,  Greek,  Chinese, 

And  read  the  Fables  of  George  Ade. 

L'Envoi 

Go  all:  from  Deuce  Spot  to  Main  Squeeze  — 
Wife,  Husband,  Bachelor,  and  Maid  — 

Stand  in  the  salty,  slangy  breeze 
And  read  the  Fables  of  George  Ade. 

FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS. 

THE  MEDICAL   TYRO  WAITING  FOR  PATIENTS 

THE  young  doctor  sits  through  his  advertised  hours 
In  a  well-equipped  office  perfumed  with  flowers, 
Longing  and  praying  for  patrons  to  come, 
For  a  fee  to  receive  as  a  comforting  crumb. 

Yet  the  bell  tinkles  not,  nor  a  patient  appears 
In  search  of  his  skill,  born  of  studious  years; 
He  listens  intently  through  long  office  hours, 
And  daily  the  news  of  the  journals  devours. 

Thus  day  after  day  passes  most  of  his  time, 
Though  skill  he  has  much,  and  ambition  sublime; 
He  's  opinions  of  value,  and  books  by  the  score, 
Yet  e'en  not  a  " charity"  enters  his  door. 

He  writes  his  indulgent,  venerable  sire 
Of  money  exhausted  and  rents  that  are  higher, 
And  dozes  and  dreams  of  the  riches  of  others, 
Of  sons  who  have  wealthy  fathers  and  mothers. 

He  wonders  how  long  he  must  patiently  wait 
For  patients  to  come  and  his  sorrows  abate; 
He  sees  Dr.  Doe  sporting  satisfied  airs 
With  a  balance  in  bank  and  penates  and  lares. 

And  queries  if  fate  with  an  infamous  plot 
Be  the  cause  of  his  sad  and  most  desolate  lot; 
He  wonders  if  Smith,  and  Johnson,  and  Jones, 
Could  have  thus  ever  lived  as  professional  drones; 


398  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Could  have  been  so  discouraged  when  seeking  a  start, 
As  to  palsy  their  nerves  and  sadden  the  heart; 
And  lastly  he  wonders  how  long  he  must  live 
Withholding  the  blessings  physicians  would  give. 

When  deepest  in  gloom  o'er  his  lack  of  success, 
With  little  of  hope  and  courage  still  less, 
The  bell  sounds  aloud  in  the  midst  of  the  night 
And  call  number  one  he  hails  with  delight. 

C.  S.  ELDRIDGE. 

THE  PASSING  OF  PRESTIGE 

BY    JOHN   BULL 

HIT  's  hastonishing  to  see  the  way  Hamerica  has  grown, 
She  hoccupies  ha  heminence  in  commerce  all  'er  hown, 
Hit  seems  like  Hinglish  prestige,  hupon  the  land  and  sea, 
Is  something  like  that  little  boy  'oo  clim'd  'igh  hup  a  tree 

To  see  wat  was  the  matter  hupon  the  bother  shore, 

Hand  saw  ha  lot  a  bloomin'  things  'ee  'd  never  seen  before, 

Ha  lot  a  'uman  beings  'oo  was  busy  has  a  hant, 

A-makin'  Hingland's  commerce  look  ghostlike  —  thin  and  gaunt. 

They  was  buildin'  locomotives  hand  hevery  bloomin  thing 
That  Hingland  used  to  make  halone  an'  halways  'ad  full  swing, 
Huntil  Yankee  hingenuity  hand  ther  heverlasting  pluck 
Laid  hancient  Hingland  on  the  shelf  an'  sent  our  trade  hamuck. 

Hit 's  simply  most  houtrageous  that  ha  Wade  &  Butcher  blade 
Should  be  crowded  hout  of  market  by  one  those  Yankees  made. 
Hit 's  a  bloomin',  blawsted,  bloody  shame  —  it 's  'orrid,  don't 

cher  know  — 
That  Hingland's  name  and  prestige  'as  dwindled  down  so  low. 

The  blawsted,  bloomin'  tin  plate  trust  'as  almost  ruined  Wales, 
An'  they  're  a  beatin'  hus  in  heverything  from  ships  clean  down  to 

nails, 

'Er  navy  is  magnificent,  a  honor  to  the  sea, 
An'  becomes  a  hawful  menace  to  Hingland's  majesty. 

And  those  beastly,  blawsted,  bloody  Boers  took  the  Yankee  as 

a  guide, 

An  'ave  got  the  most  of  Johnny  Bull  exceptin'  tail  an'  hide. 
Sir  Thomas  Lipton's  yacht  disgraced  by  a  losin'  of  the  cup, 
Hi  think  we  better  'itch  to  them  'fore  the  bloomin'  game  is  hup. 

DAVID  STEARNS. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  399 

PERSEVERANCE 

THERE  was  a  young  maid  who  said:  "Why 
Can't  I  look  in  my  ear  with  my  eye? 

If  I  give  my  mind  to  it 

I  'm  sure  I  can  do  it. 
You  never  can  tell  till  you  try." 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  VILLAGE  ORACLE* 

OLD  Dan'l  Hanks  he  says  this  town 

Is  jest  the  best  on  earth; 
He  says  there  ain't  one  up  nor  down, 

That 's  got  one  half  her  worth; 
He  says  there  ain't  no  other  state 

That 's  good  as  ourn,  nor  near; 
And  all  the  folks  that 's  good  and  great 

Is  settled  right  'round  here. 

Says  I:  "D'  jer  ever  travel,  Dan?" 

"You  bet  I  ain't  !"  says  he; 
"I  tell  you  what!  the  place  I  've  got 

Is  good  enough  fer  me!" 

He  says  the  other  party  's  fools, 

'Cause  they  don't  vote  his  way; 
He  says  the  "feeble-minded  schools" 

Is  where  they  ought  ter  stay; 
If  he  was  law  their  mouth  he  'd  shut, 

Or  blow  'em  all  ter  smash; 
He  says  their  platform  's  nawthin'  but 

A  great  big  mess  of  trash. 

Says  I:  "D' jer  ever  read  it,  Dan?" 

"You  bet  I  ain't!"  says  he; 
"And  when  I  do,  well,  I  tell  you, 

I'll  let  you  know,  by  gee!" 

He  says  that  all  religion  's  wrong, 

'Cept  just  what  he  believes; 
He  says  them  ministers  belong 

In  jail,  the  same  as  thieves; 
He  says  they  take  the  blessed  Word 

And  tear  it  all  ter  shreds; 
He  says  their  preachin  's  jest  absurd; 

They  're  simply  leatherheads. 

*  Reprinted  from  Lincoln's  "  Cape  Cod  Ballads,"  by  permission 
of  D.  Appleton  &  Company. 


400  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

Says  I:  "D'jer  ever  hear  'em,  Dan?" 

"You  bet  I  ain't!"  says  he; 
"I  'd  never  go  ter  hear  'em,  no;         . 

They  make  me  sick  ter  see!" 

Some  fellers  reckon,  more  or  less, 

Before  they  speak  their  mind, 
And  sometimes  calkerlate  or  guess  — 

But  them  ain't  Dan'l's  kind. 
The  Lord  knows  all  things,  great  or  small, 

With  doubt  He  's  never  vexed; 
He,  in  His  wisdom,  knows  it  all  — 

But  Dan'l  Hanks  comes  next. 

Says  I:  "How  d'  yer  know  you  're  right?" 

"How  do  I  know?11  says  he; 
"Well,  now,  I  vum!  I  know,  by  gum! 
I  'm  right  because  I  be!" 

JOSEPH  LINCOLN. 
AWFUL  HAZARDOUS 

IT'S  easy  sellin'  'taters 

An'  other  things  'at  grows, 
Fer  folks  is  allus  hungry, 

Ez  everybody  knows, 
An'  farmers'  work  is  steady, 

The  biggest  cinch  they  is; 
But  sellin'  ile,  I  tell  ye, 

Is  a  mighty  risky  biz ! 

Of  course  the  ile  is  handy, 

An'  folks  hev  got  t'  buy, 
But  wells  is  mighty  freaky 

An'  frequently  goes  dry, 
An'  when  they  's  ile  a'  plenty 

An'  prices  good  an'  steep, 
They  's  lots  of  other  fellers 

'At  wants  t'  sell  it  cheap! 

An'  when  y'  try  t'  crowd  'em, 

Er  push  'em  t'  the  wall, 
They  says  y  're  awful  greedy, 

An'  says  y'  wants  it  all; 
An'  when  y'  don't  say  nothin', 

It  makes  'em  bilin'  mad, 
An'  then  they  says  y  're  graspin', 

An'  crooked,  too,  an'  bad! 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  401 

An'  when  y  're  doin'  business, 

An'  sellin'  all  the  ile, 
Some  feller  reads  yer  letters, 

An'  things  begins  t'  bile, 
An'  folks  begins  a'  talkin', 

An'  things  begins  t'  sizz, 
An'  sellin'  ile,  I  tell  ye, 

Is  a  mighty  risky  biz ! 

CHARLES  IRVIN  JUNKIN. 

CHARGE  OF   THE  ROUGH  WRITERS 

PENS  by  the  hundred 
Volleyed  and  thundered 
And  blundered, 
Always  reported 
Facts  that  were  distorted, 
And  wondered 
Who  had  blundered! 
Pens  to  the  right  of  us, 
Pens  to  the  fright  of  us, 
Pens  to  the  blight  of  us, 
Sputtered  and  scratched! 
Pens  there  behind  us, 
Certain  to  find  us, 
Ever  remind  us 
That  we  were  matched! 

Messengers  ran  about, 
Waking  the  air  with  a  shout, 
Every  line  weighed  with  a  doubt; 
Wondering  faces! 
Davis  and  Creelman  and  Crane 
Scoured  o'er  the  Cuban  plain, 
Looking  for  gore  and  for  gain, 
Hot  were  the  races! 
Ah!  how  they  lied  to  us! 
Babbled  and  cried  to  us, 
Showing  each  side  to  us, 
Evils  and  graces! 

Davis  with  "I"  in  his  pocket, 
Creelman  with  "I"  in  his  locket, 
Crane  with  "I"  in  his  docket  — 
Ego  was  ever  there! 
Nothing  e'er  mattered 
How  they  bespattered 
Truth,  how  they  battered 


402  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

That  face  once  so  fair! 
"Cash!"  was  the  yell  of  them, 
That  was  the  spell  of  them, 
That  was  the  knell  of  them! 
What  did  they  care? 

Oh,  the  Rough  Writers, 
Our  fiction  delighters! 
The  moral  enlighters 
In  the  big  magazines! 
Resume  your  old  diction, 
Return  to  true  fiction, 
Where  there  's  no  restriction, 
And  leave  the  poor  soldier 
His  frail  pork  and  beans! 
His  embalmed  pork  and  beans! 

Chorus 

Davis:  "I  — I  — I  — I!" 
Creelman:  "I  — I  — I  — I!" 
Crane:  "I— I  — I  — I!" 

L'Env&i 

Oh,  ye  reporters  all  unknown 

Who  wrote  the  war  in  the  proper  tone, 

A  nameless  grave  is  your  only  hope, 

While  Davis-Creelman-Crane  stand  on  the  slope 

Of  Parnassus,  and  smoke  their  dope! 

HAROLD  MACGRATH. 

A  LITERARY  MISS 

THERE  once  was  a  lit'rary  miss; 
And  all  that  she  needed  for  bliss 
Was  some  ink  and  a  pen, 
Reams  of  paper,  and  then 
Thirty  days  to  describe  half  a  kiss. 

OLIVER  MARBLE. 
FAME 

WHEN  a  man  becomes  a  hero  all  the  world  is  standing  round, 

In  waiting  for  a  chance  to  share  his  glory. 
From  shore  to  shore  innumerable  voices  will  resound, 

All  eager  to  add  something  to  the  story. 
"We  used  to  know  him  in  his  youth!" 

"We  said  he  was  a  wonder!" 
"He  was  a  genius;  that 's  the  truth. 

You  could  n't  keep  him  under!" 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  403 

"He  was  the  catcher  on  our  nine!" 

"His  sharpness  beat  the  weasel's." 
"That  six-foot  oldest  boy  of  mine 

From  him  once  caught  the  measles!" 

And  the  anecdotes  come  rushing,  in  bewildering  array, 

From  folk  of  every  station  and  complexion, 
For  there  's  always  ambition,  which  no  wisdom  can  allay, 

To  revel  in  some  brilliant  man's  reflection. 
"His  family  we  've  visited!" 

"We  were  his  next-door  neighbors!" 
"Kind  words  of  hope  we  've  often  said 

To  cheer  him  at  his  labors!" 
"My  father  told  him  he  might  call 

On  our  folks  to  assist  him!" 
And  (loudest  chorus  of  them  all) 

"We  are  the  girls  who  've  kissed  him." 

ANONYMOUS. 

DISCOVERED 

SEEN  you  down  at  chu'ch  las'  night, 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
What  I  mean?  oh,  dat  's  all  right, 

Nevah  min,  Miss  Lucy. 
You  was  sma't  ez  sma't  could  be, 
But  you  could  n't  hide  f'om  me. 
Ain't  I  got  two  eyes  to  see? 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 

Guess  you  thought  you  's  awful  keen; 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
Evahthing  you  done,  I  seen; 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 
Seen  him  tek  you'  ahm  jes'  so, 
When  he  got  outside  de  do'  — 
Oh,  I  know  dat  man  's  yo'  beau! 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy. 

Say,  now,  honey,  wha  'd  he  say?  — 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy! 
Keep  yo'  secrets  —  dat 's  yo'  way  — 

Nevah  min,'  Miss  Lucy. 
Won't  tell  me  an'  I  'm  yo'  pal  — 
I  'm  gwine  tell  his  othah  gal,  — 
Know  huh,  too,  huh  name  is  Sal; 

Nevah  min',  Miss  Lucy! 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAK. 


404  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  KIPPERLING 
(After  R.  K.) 

[N.  B.  —  No  nautical  terms  or  statements  guaranteed.] 

AWAY  by  the  haunts  of  the  Yang-tse-boo, 

Where  the  Yuletide  rolls  cold  gin, 
And  the  rollicking  sign  of  the  Lord  Knows  Who 

Sees  mariners  drink  like  sin; 
Where  the  Jolly  Roger  tips  his  quart 

To  the  luck  of  the  Union  Jack; 
And  some  are  screwed  on  the  foreign  port, 

And  some  on  the  starboard  tack;  — 
Ever  they  tell  the  tale  anew 

Of  the  chase  for  the  kipper  ling  swag; 
How  the  smack  Tommy  This  and  the  smack  Tommy  That 
They  broached  each  other  like  a  whiskey-vat, 

And  the  Fuzzy-Wuz  took  the  bag. 

Now  this  is  the  law  of  the  herring  fleet  that  harries  the  northern 

main, 
Tattooed  in  scars  on  the  chests  of  the  tars  with  a  brand  like  the 

brand  of  Cain: 
That  none  may  woo  the  sea-born  shrew  save  such  as  pay  their 

way 
With  a  kipperling  netted  at  noon  of  night  and  cured  ere  the 

crack  of  day. 

It  was  the  woman  Sal  o'  the  Dune,  and  the  men  were  three  to 

one, 
Bill  the  Skipper  and  Ned  the  Nipper  and  Sam  the  Son  of  a 

Gun, 
And  the  woman  was  Sal  o'  the  Dune,  as  I  said,  and  the  men  were 

three  to  one. 

There  was  never  a  light  in  the  sky  that  night  of  the  soft  mid 
summer  gales, 

But  the  great  man-bloaters  snorted  low,  and  the  young  'uns 
sang  like  whales; 

And  out  laughed  Sal  (like  a  dog-toothed  wheel  was  the  laugh 
that  Sal  laughed  she): 

"Now  who  's  for  a  bride  on  the  shady  side  of  up'ards  of  forty- 
three?" 

And  Neddy  he  swore  by  butt  and  bend,  and  Billy  by  bend  and 
bitt, 

And  nautical  names  that  no  man  frames  but  your  amateur  naut 
ical  wit; 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  405 

And  Sam  said,  "Shiver  my  topping-lifts  and  scuttle  my  foe  Vie 

yarn, 
And  may  I  be  curst,  if  I  'm  not  in  first  with  a  kipperling  slued 

astarn!" 

Now  the  smack  Tommy  This  and  the  smack  Tommy  That  and  the 

Fuzzy-Wuz  smack,  all  three, 
Their  captains  bold,  they  were  Bill  and  Ned  and  Sam  respect- 

tivelee. 

And  it 's  writ  in  the  rules  that  the  primary  schools  of  kippers 
should  get  off  cheap 

For  a  two-mile  reach  off  Foulness  beach  when  the  July  tide  's 
at  neap; 

And  the  lawless  lubbers  that  lust  for  loot  and  filch  the  yearling 
stock 

They  get  smart  raps  from  the  coastguard  chaps  with  their  blun 
derbuss  fixed  half-cock. 

Now  Bill  the  Skipper  and  Ned  the  Nipper  could  tell  green  cheese 

from  blue, 
And  Bill  knew  a  trick  and  Ned  knew  a  trick,  but  Sam  knew  a 

trick  worth  two. 

So  Bill  he  sneaks  a  corporal's  breeks  and  a  belt  of  pipeclayed  hide, 
And  splices  them  on  to  the  jibsail  boom  like  a  troopship  on  the 
tide. 

And  likewise  Ned  to  his  masthead  he  runs  a  rag  of  the  Queen's, 
With  a  rusty  sword  and  a  moke  on  board  to  bray  like  the  Horse 
Marines. 

But  Sam  sniffs  gore  and  he  keeps  off-shore  and  he  waits  for  things 

to  stir, 
Then  he  tracks  for  the  deep  with  a  long  fog-horn  rigged  up 

like  a  bow-chaser. 

Now  scarce  had  Ned  dropped  line  and  lead  when  he  spots  the 

pipeclayed  hide, 
And  the  corporal's  breeks  on  the  jibsail-boom  like  a  troopship 

on  the  tide; 
And  Bill  likewise,  when  he  ups  and  spies  the  slip  of  a  rag  of  the 

Queen's, 
And  the  rusty  sword,  and  he  sniffs  aboard  the  moke  of  the  Horse 

Marines. 

So  they  each  luffed  sail,  and  they  each  turned  tail,  and  they 

whipped  their  wheels  like  mad, 

When  the  one  he  said,  "By  the  Lord,  it 's  Ned!"  and  the  other, 
"It's  Bill,  by  Gad!" 


406  THE   HUMBLER    POETS 

Then  about  and  about,  and  nozzle  to  snout,  they  rammed  through 

breach  and  brace, 
And  the  splinters  flew  as  they  mostly  do  when  a  Government 

test  takes  place. 

Then  up   stole  Sam  with  his  little  ram  and  the  nautical  talk 

flowed  free, 
And  in  good  bold  type  might  have  covered  the  two  front  sheets 

of  the  P.  M.  G. 

But  the  fog-horn  bluff  was  safe  enough,  where  all  was  weed  and 

weft, 
And  the  conger-eels  were  a-making  meals,  and  the  pick  of  the 

tackle  left 
Was  a  binnacle-lid  and  a  leak  in  the  bilge  and  the  chip  of  a 

cracked  sheerstrake 
And  the  corporal's  belt  and  the  moke's  cool  pelt  and  a  portrait 

of  Francis  Drake. 

So  Sam  he  hauls  the  dead  man's  trawls  and  he  booms  for  the 

harbor-bar, 
And  the  splitten  fry  are  salted  dry  by  the  blink  of  the  morning 

star. 

And  Sal  o'  the  Dune  was  wed  next  moon  by  the  man  that  paid 

his  way 
With  a  kipperling  netted  at  noon  of  night  and  cured  ere  the 

crack  of  day; 

For  such  is  the  law  of  the  herring  fleet  that  floats  on  the  north 
ern  main, 

Tattooed  in  scars  on  the  chests  of  the  tars  with  a  brand  like  the 
brand  of  Cain. 

And  still  in  the  haunts  of  the  Yang-tse-boo 
Ever  they  tell  the  tale  anew 

Of  the  chase  for  the  kipperling  swag; 
How  the  smack  Tommy  This  and  the  smack  Tommy  That 
They  broached  each  other  like  a  whiskey- vat, 
And  the  Fuzzy-Wuz  took  the  bag. 

OWEN  SEAMAN. 

FAME  —  FAME  —  FAME 

IT  's  a  fad  of  my  own,  that  I  'd  like  to  be  known 

As  a  person  of  infinite  Fame. 
Be  it  Author  of  books  or  a  Student  of  crooks, 

There  is  much  to  be  earned  with  a  Name. 
Through  a  lifetime  of  days,  there  are  dozens  of  ways 

That  a  genius  can  push  to  the  front, 
And  I  'd  like  to  be  classed  with  the  chaps  who  will  last, 

For  some  smart  little  story  or  "stunt." 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  407 

No  statesman  am  I,  with  a  good  reason  why, 

For  my  brain  is  not  measured  by  "Chin." 
Invention,  land  sakes!  gives  my  inner  self  aches, 

And  a  cog  fills  my  conscience  with  din; 
As  a  poet  my  themes  are  a  matter  of  dreams, 

And  I  shudder  when  pondering  rhyme; 
Then  this  Scientist  plan  is  a  wear  on  a  man, 

And  it  occupies  bushels  of  time. 

No  pen  that  I  shove  soars  to  regions  above, 

Where  the  author  is  reckoned  to  dwell; 
I  am  sore  on  the  strife  of  this  wild  Public  Life, 

There  is  never  a  battle  to  quell; 
When  I  look  through  the  sheets  every  item  repeats 

All  the  glory  and  fame  of  the  few; 
They  just  seem  to  crop  from  the  soil  without  stop, 

And  they  're  born  with  a  mission  to  do. 

Now,  why,  may  I  ask,  may  a  fellow  not  bask 

In  the  sunshine  of  Fame,  who,  like  me, 
Is  a  straight  normal  chap  with  no  ideals  on  tap, 

And  no  race  and  no  theme  to  set  free? 
I  'd  like  to  go  out  and  dispel  all  this  doubt 

By  proclaiming  the  fact  to  the  earth, 
That  a  straight,  simple  "mut"  some  example  can  cut 

On  the  strength  of  his  health  and  his  mirth. 

W.  LIVINGSTON  LARNEDC 

AN  ESKIMELODRAMA 

'Mm  Greenland's  polar  ice  and  snow, 
Where  watermelons  seldom  grow 
(It 's  far  too  cold  up  there,  you  know), 
There  dwelt  a  bold  young  Eskimo. 

Beneath  the  self -same  iceberg's  shade, 
In  fur  of  seal  and  bear  arrayed 
(Not  over  cleanly,  I  'm  afraid), 
There  lived  a  charming  Eskimaid. 

Throughout  the  six  months'  night  they  'd  spoon 
(Ah,  ye  of  Sage,  think  what  a  boon), 
To  stop  at  ten  is  much  too  soon 
Beneath  the  silvery  Eskimoon. 

The  hated  rival  now  we  see! 
(You  spy  the  coming  tragedy, 
But  I  can't  help  it;  don't  blame  me.) 
An  Eskimucker  vile  was  he, 


408  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

He  found  the  lovers  there  alone. 
He  killed  them  with  his  axe  of  bone. 
(You  see  how  fierce  the  tale  has  grown)  — 
The  fond  pair  died  with  an  Eskimoan. 

Two  graves  were  dug,  deep  in  the  ice, 
Were  lined  with  furs,  moth  balls,  and  spice; 
The  two  were  buried  in  a  trice, 
Quite  safe  from  all  the  Eskimice. 

Now  Fido  comes,  alas,  too  late! 
(I  hope  it 's  not  indelicate 
These  little  incidents  to  state)  — 
The  Eskimurderer  he  ate. 

L'Envoi 

Upon  an  Eskimo  to  sup 
Was  too  much  for  an  Eskipup  — 
He  died.     His  Eskimemory 
Is  thus  kept  green  in  verse  by  me. 

ANONYMOUS. 

LAY  OF  ANCIENT  ROME 

OH,  the  Roman  was  a  rogue, 

He  erat  was,  you  bettum; 
He  ran  his  automobilis 

And  smoked  his  cigarettum; 
He  wore  a  diamond  studibus 

And  elegant  cravattum, 
A  maxima  cum  laude  shirt, 

And  such  a  stylish  hattum! 

He  loved  the  luscious  hic-haec-hoc, 

And  bet  on  games  and  equi; 
At  times  he  won;  at  others,  though, 

He  got  it  in  the  nequi; 
He  winked  (quo  usque  tandem?) 

At  puellas  on  the  Forum, 
And  sometimes  even  made 

Those  goo-goo  oculorum! 

He  frequently  was  seen 

At  combats  gladitorial, 
And  ate  enough  to  feed 

Ten  boarders  at  Memorial; 
He  often  went  on  sprees 

And  said,  on  starting  homus, 
"Hie  labor  —  opus  est, 

Oh,  where  's  my  hie  —  hie  —  domus?  " 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  409 

Although  he  lived  in  Rome  — 

Of  all  the  arts  the  middle  — 
He  was  (excuse  the  phrase) 

A  horrid  individ'l; 
Ah!  what  a  diff'rent  thing 

Was  the  homo  (dative,  hominy) 
Of  far-away  B.C. 

From  us  of  Anno  Domini. 

THOMAS  YBARRA. 

TO  MIGUEL  DE   CERVANTES  SAAVADRA 

A  BLUEBIRD  lives  in  yonder  tree, 

Likewise  a  little  chickadee, 

In  two  woodpeckers'  nests  —  rent  free  I 

There,  where  the  weeping  willow  weeps, 
A  dainty  house-wren  sweetly  cheeps  — 
From  an  old  oriole's  nest  she  peeps. 

I  see  the  English  sparrow  tilt 
Upon  the  limb  with  sun  begilt  — 
His  nest  an  ancient  swallow  built. 

So  it  was  one  of  your  old  jests, 
Eh,  Mig.  Cervantes,  that  attests 
"There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nests"? 

RICHARD  KENDALL'  MUNKITTRICK. 

A   VERY  NICE  PAIR 

Two  magpies  sat  on  a  garden  wall, 

As  it  might  be  Wednesday  week; 
And  one  little  magpie  wagged  his  tail 

In  the  other  little  magpie's  beak. 

And  doubling  like  a  fist  his  little  claw-hand, 

Said  this  other:  "Upon  my  word, 
This  is  more  than  flesh  and  blood  can  stand, 

Of  magpie  or  any  other  bird." 

So  they  picked  and  they  scratched  each  other's  little  eyes, 

Till  all  that  was  left  on  the  rail 
Was  the  beak  of  one  of  the  little  magpies, 

And  the  other  little  magpie's  tail. 

ANONYMOUS. 


410  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

THE   YOUNG  MAN   FROM   PALL  MALL 

THERE  was  a  young  man  from  Pall  Mall 
Who  went  to  a  fancy  dress  ball. 

Just  for  the  fun 

He  dressed  up  as  a  bun; 
And  was  eat  by  a  dog  in  the  hall. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ON  A  DULL  DOG 

THIS  dog  was  dull.     He  had  so  little  wit 

That  other  dogs  would  flout  him,  nose  in  air. 

But  was  he  therefore  wretched?     Did  he  care 
How  dogdom  snarled,  or  even  think  of  it? 
He  thought  of  nothing,  but  all  day  would  sit 

Warm  in  the  sun,  with  placid,  vacant  stare, 

Content,  at  ease,  oblivious,  unaware; 
And  all  because  —  he  had  so  little  wit! 

O  happy  dulness  which  is  dull  indeed, 

And  cannot  hear  the  critic-world's  "Go  hang!" 

Small  bliss  we  get  from  our  too  conscious  breed, 
We  semi-dullards  of  the  middle  gang! 

To  mark  the  rose,  and  know  one's  self  a  weed, 
And  know  the  others  know,  —  there  lies  the  pang! 

EDWARD  CRACROFT  LEFROY. 

UNSATISFIED  YEARNING 

DOWN  in  the  silent  hallway 

Scampers  the  dog  about, 
And  whines,  and  barks,  and  scratches, 

In  order  to  get  out. 

Once  in  the  glittering  starlight, 

He  straightway  doth  begin 
To  set  up  a  doleful  howling 

In  order  to  get  in. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 

REPTILIAN  ANATOMY 

"BED AD,  that  hurt!"  and  Patrick  held 

A  bleeding  ringer  up  to  view. 
Erstwhiles  he  'd  poked  up  shrimps  and  such 

To  see  just  what  the  things  would  do. 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  411 

The  Irishman's  patrons  gathered  'round; 

But  not  with  sympathy  —  they  laughed 
At  Paddy's  little  turtle  scrape  — 

And,  while  the  reptile  crawled,  they  chaffed. 

"Howld  on,  I  want  to  know  pf where  is 
"His  head,"  says  Paddy's  Irish  tongue, 

"And  pfwhere  's  his  tail?"     "Why  so?"  says  one. 
"To  know  if  I  am  bit  or  shtung!" 

ANONYMOUS. 

DON'T   YOU  SEE? 

THE  day  was  hotter  than  words  can  tell, 

So  hot  the  jelly-fish  would  n't  jell. 

The  halibut  went  all  to  butter, 

And  the  catfish  had  only  force  to  utter 

A  faint  sea-mew  —  aye,  though  some  have  doubted, 

The  carp  he  carped  and  the  horn-pout  pouted. 

The  sardonic  sardine  had  his  sly  heart's  wish 
When  the  angel  fish  fought  with  the  paradise-fish. 
'T  was  a  sight  gave  the  bluefish  the  blues  to  see, 
But  the  seal  concealed  a  wicked  glee  — 

The  day  it  went  from  bad  to  worse, 

Till  the  pickerel  picked  the  purse-crab's  purse. 

And  that  crab  felt  crabbeder  yet,  no  doubt, 
Because  the  oyster  would  n't  shell  out. 
The  sculpin  would  sculp,  but  had  n't  a  model, 
And  the  codfish  begged  for  something  to  coddle. 

But  to  both  the  dolphin  refused  its  doll, 
Till  the  whale  was  obliged  to  whale  them  all. 

KATHERINE  LEE  BATES. 


A   PHILISTINE 

YESTER'EN  while  strolling  through  a  marish  dale 
I  marked  a  thistle-feeding  ass,  and  said: 

"Poor  patient  drudge,  how  will  thy  worth  avail 
To  lift  thy  name,  while  thou  art  thistle-fed? 

See,  here  are  cytisus  and  galingale  — 

Blooms  of  Theocritus;  crop  these  instead: 
So  haply  may  some  Genius  in  thy  head 

Throb  gloriously  and  tingle  through  thy  tail. 


412  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

"Then  would  men  credit  thee  with  breadth  of  brain 
Beyond  thy  race,  and  thou  'mong  all  that  dwell 
In  British  donkey dom  shouldst  bear  the  bell." 

He  paused;  I  showed  the  sacred  food;  in  vain! 

His  lumpish  nose  turned  thistlewards  again. 

"Thou  wast  foredoomed,"  I  murmured;  "fare  thee  well!" 
EDWARD  CRACROFT  LEFROY. 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SEASON 

I  AM  a  moth  bali 

And  (literally) 

There  are  no  flies  on  me 

Or  any  insect  life  at  all. 

The  wicked  flea, 

The  rambunctious  roach, 

And  the  exuberant  bug 

All  view  me  with  reproach 

And  promptly, lug 

Themselves  over  to  the  next  flat. 

And  moths 

In  cloths? 

Well,  I  stand  pat 

And  they  go  almost  anywhere 

Else  and  stay  there. 

All  summer  long  I  live 

Done  up  in  wool  and  furs 

And  overcoats  and  winter  wear 

That  are  his  or  hers; 

And  all  that  time  I  give 

Myself  assiduously  to  making  things  smell 

And  never  say  a  word  — 

And,  well, 

Say, 

Do  I  get  there? 

And  then  there  comes  a  day 

When  my  environment  is  bestirred 

And  I  emerge  from  my  lair, 

I  and  this  odor  I  have  a  patent  on  — 

And  it  is  n't  sweet  violet 

Or  heliotrope  or  mignonette, 

You  bet! 

It 's  a  sort  of  gone 

Last  rose  of  summer  scent 

That  was  n't  really  meant 

In  the  first  place 

To  please  the  animal  race 

Or  any  one  else  regardless 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  413. 

Of  creed,  color  or  previous  condition  of  servitude; 

But  just  to  brood 

And  send  out  a  ball-bearing,  multiple  horsepower 

Smelliness 

That  can  do  more  in  an  hour 

To  make  itself  known 

Than  a  presidential  candidate 

Can  in  a  lifetime 

Working  early  and  late. 

For  one  small  dime 

I  can  show  more  scents 

At  less  expense 

And  more  strength 

At  greater  length 

Than  anything  you  ever  saw. 

And  can  you  lose  me? 

Naw! 

I  come  forth  gay  and  free 

Over  musk  or  patchouli 

Or  ylang-ylang  or  night-blooming  cereus 

Or  jockey  club  or  any  other  odorous 

Preparation  that  any  one  ever  did  ring 

The  changes  on  for  money  or  love. 

And  when  I  sing 

My  voice  sounds  above 

All  the  rest,  because  I  keep  to  the  bass  clef 

And  warble  fff. 

I  am  a  moth  ball 

And  I  have  the  call 

At  this  time  of  the  year; 

And  if  you  don't  like  the  perfume 

When  I  loom 

Up  in  a  car  or  theatre  or  drawing  room 

Or  other  place  and  begin  to  shout, 

There  is  nowhere  to  go  — 

And  the  poet  once  told  us  so  — 

But  out! 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  BOOK-WORM 

To  HEROES  who  on  battlefields  win  fame 

We  do  not  grudge  the  lordly  lion's  name; 

Those  who,  insensible  to  others'  cares, 

Are  always  rough  and  surly,  we  call  bears; 

To  those  who  learn  no  lesson  from  what  passes, 

The  ever  dull  and  stupid,  we  call  asses. 

All  claim  to  be  a  lion  I  resign, 


414  THE    HUMBLER    POETS 

And  shun  all  bearish  traits  and  asinine; 
Nature  has  cast  me  for  another  part, 
And  I  embrace  my  lot  with  all  my  heart; 
To  satisfy  an  ever-craving  need, 
All  day  upon  the  leaves  of  books  I  feed, 
And  by  night  I  find  a  resting-place 
In  what  by  day  appears  of  books  a  case; 
Thus  day  and  night  I  think  my  title  firm 
To  be  that  busy  idler  —  a  book-worm. 

C.  W.  PEARSON. 

CHANGE  ASSURED 

THIS  world  it  is  a  pleasant  place 
Where  none  need  vainly  yearn. 

You  get  precisely  what  you  want 
If  you  will  wait  your  turn. 

For  if  you  like  not  ice  and  snow 
And  winter's  prowling  storm, 

You  need  but  wait  till  summer  time 
When  it  will  be  too  warm. 

ANONYMOUS. 

RELAXATION 

I  ALWAYS  like  the  freakish  verse, 
The  kind  that  runs  downstairs; 
The  kind  that  circles  round  the  page, 

Or  does  its  turn  in  squares. 
It  'a  fun  to  see  the  poets'  stunts, 

Helped  by  the  typo  men; 

Just  see  again. 

the  way  runs  up 

this  runs          and  then 

down  hill 

I  do  not  think  that  people  ought 

To  keep  the  same  old  gait; 
They  ought  to  break  loose  now  and  then 

And  keep  an  evening  "late." 
A  long,  straight  line,  without  a  break, 
Is  bad  for  verse  or  men; 

up  hill 

this  runs          and  then 

the  way  runs  down 

Just  see  again. 

ANONYMOUS. 


IN   LIGHTER   VEIN  415 

A  SONG  OF  SUMMER 

OH,  the  swish  and  the  swash  of  the  blue  summer  sea 
Is  the  music  of  music  that  ripples  through  me. 
Oh,  I  list  to  its  saline  soblet 

As  the  blue  gulls  about  me  skim, 
And  I  'm  certain  my  mental  goblet 

Is  full  to  the  fragile  brim, 
As  I  flounder  about  on  the  crest  of  the  wave 
While  it  rolls  o'er  the  mermaiden's  musical  cave. 

Oh,  the  wave  with  the  symphony  swirl  on  it, 
And  the  glamour  of  glittering  pearl  on  it, 

And  the  tresses  of  red 

All  attached  to  the  head 
Of  the  lithe  Summer,  blithe  Summer  girl  on  it! 

Oh,  the  cloudland  I  note 

As  I  tumble  and  toss 
On  the  billow  afloat 

Like  the  swift  albatross; 
On  a  fairyland  shore 

With  red  lilies  abeam, 
Amid  Houris  galore 

Do  I  linger  and  dream 

Of  the  bough  with  the  blossom  of  pink  on  it, 
Of  the  twig  with  the  gay  bobolink  on  it, 

And  a  fair,  witching  face, 

With  its  dimples  of  grace 
And  the  bar  with  ripe  rosy  drink  on  it. 

Oh,  these  are  the  visions  that  people  my  brain 

As  I  turn  somersaults  in  the  riotous  sea, 
As  I  caper  about  on  the  wind-rippled  main, 

While  I  duck  'neath  the  shaft  of  the  swift  stingaree. 

O,  I  think  of  the  city's  sizzle 
And  the  roast,  and  the  fry,  and  the  frizzle, 
With  not  a  cool  raindrop  to  drizzle; 
Where  the  gin  fizz  is  now  a  gin  fizzle. 

Aloft  upon  the  breaker 

I  lose  all  sense  of  care 
While  I  'm  thumping, 
And  a-bumping 

Most  serenely  here  and  there. 
Out  of  happy  dreams  a  waker 

From  the  deep  I  now  emerge, 


416  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

And  I  listen  to  the  rumpty 
Tumpty  tumpty 

Of  the  surge. 

And  I  make  a  line  instanter 
For  the  arabesque  decanter. 
Yes,  I  fly  on  a  straight  Indian  arrow  line, 
On  a  bee  line,  and  not  on  a  sparrow  line; 

And  I  gather  the  drink 

From  the  plump,  peachy  pink 
Little  hand  of  my  own  little  Caroline. 

And  it  'a  then  that  I  fly,  like  a  gull,  fancy  free, 
To  the  table  where  glimmers  the  gem  of  the  sea. 
Oh,  it 's  there,  with  a  heart  full  of  joy,  I  salaam 
To  the  fish-ball's  twin  sister,  the  fragrant  fried  clam. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 


A   CLIMATIC  MADRIGAL 

IT  is  time  to  go  a-Maying 

When  the  frost  is  in  the  air, 
When  the  snowy  boughs  are  swaying 

And  the  fields  are  white  and  fair; 
It  is  joy,  indeed,  to  wander 

Through  the  bosky  dells  and  glades, 
For  it  makes  a  man  grow  fonder 

Of  the  snow  through  which  he  wades. 
'Tis  particularly  pleasing  — 
Maying  with  your  fingers  freezing. 

Hear  the  robins'  merry  chatter, 

Hark  the  songs  that  they  repeat 
While  they  wonder  what 's  the  matter 

As  they  nurse  their  frozen  feet! 
See  the  butterflies  leap  gayly 

As  they  dance  adown  the  breeze  — 
They  must  exercise  thus  daily 

Or  with  asthma  they  will  wheeze. 
O  't  is  joyous  to  go  Maying 
When  the  world  about  is  playing. 

See  the  lambkin  as  it  gambols 
On  the  hillside  near  its  dam, 

How  on  the  frozen  slopes  it  scrambles  — 
Cunning,  gentle,  frigid  lamb! 

How  the  honeybees  are  humming, 
Droning  music  as  they  go  — 


IN    LIGHTER   VEIN  417 

See,  a  few  of  them  are  coming 

Coasting  on  the  flakes  of  snow! 
How  the  tender  leaves  are  shaking 
As  from  the  boughs  they  're  breaking. 

Come,  we  '11  share  our  joys  together; 

Welcome  spring  with  hearts  elate, 
Fare  forth  in  the  balmy  weather  — 

We  can  either  stroll  or  skate. 
Going  Maying  thus  is  joyous 

In  our  furs  and  overshoes, 
With  no  sunstrokes  to  annoy  us  — 

Who  another  mood  would  choose? 
It  is  pleasant  to  go  Maying 
When  we  have  such  splendid  sleighing! 

WILBUR  D.  NESBIT. 

THE  SUM  OF  LIFE 

NOTHING  to  do  but  work, 

Nothing  to  eat  but  food, 
Nothing  to  wear  but  clothes 

To  keep  one  from  going  nude. 

Nothing  to  breathe  but  air, 

Quick  as  a  flash  't  is  gone; 
Nowhere  to  fall  but  off, 

Nowhere  to  stand  but  on. 

Nothing  to  comb  but  hair, 

Nowhere  to  sleep  but  in  bed, 
Nothing  to  weep  but  tears, 

Nothing  to  bury  but  dead. 

Nothing  to  sing  but  songs, 

Ah,  well,  alas!  alack! 
Nowhere  to  go  but  out, 

Nowhere  to  come  but  back. 

Nothing  to  see  but  sights, 

Nothing  to  quench  but  thirst, 
Nothing  to  have  but  what  we  Ve  got; 

Thus  through  life  we  are  cursed. 

Nothing  to  strike  but  a  gait; 

Everything  moves  that  goes. 
Nothing  at  all  but  common  sense 

Can  ever  withstand  these  woes. 

BEN  KING. 


418  THE   HUMBLER   POETS 

A  QUESTION 

A  LITTLE  bird  sat  on  a  telegraph  wire, 
And  said  to  his  mates:  "i  declare, 

If  wireless  telegraphy  comes  into  vogue, 
We  '11  all  have  to  sit  on  the  air." 

ANONYMOUS. 
GONE  TO  HER  HEAD 

THERE  was  a  young  lady,  quite  rich, 
Who  heard  funny  noises,  at  which 

She  took  off  her  hat, 

And  found  that  her  rat 
Had  fallen  asleep  at  the  switch. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ONLY  JAPANESE 

THOUGH  to  talk  too  much  of  Heaven 

Is  not  well, 
Though  agreeable  people  never 

Mention  Hell; 
Yet  the  woman  who  betrayed  me, 

Whom  I  kissed, 
In  that  bygone  summer  taught  me 

Both  exist. 
I  was  ardent,  she  was  always 

Wisely  cool; 
So  my  lady  played  the  traitor,  — 

I  the  fool. 
Oh,  your  pardon!  but  remember 

If  you  please, 
I  'm  translating;  this  is  only 

Japanese. 

ANONYMOUS. 

NO  SEEKING,   NO  LOSING 

AN  old  philosopher  in  China 

Spent  all  his  life  in  angling; 
He  thought  that  there  was  nothing  finer 

Than  having  his  line  dangling: 
He  used  no  bait,  he  caught  no  fish 
Early  or  late  —  't  was  not  his  wish. 

ANONYMOUS. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


A  blood-red  ring  hung  round  the 
moon 

A  bluebird  lives  in  yonder  tree    . 

A  cheer  and  salute  for  the  ad 
miral,  and  here 's  to  the  cap 
tain  bold 

A  child  is  born  —  it  gasps  and 
cries  

A  clamor  and  clatter  of  galloping 
hoofs 

A  creature  wan,  of  dwarfed  phy 
sique  

A  crowd  of  troubles  passed  him 
by 

A  Grecian  myth  tells  of  a  giant 
grim 

A  lane  of  elms  in  June ;  —  the 
air 

A  little  bird  sat  on  a  telegraph 
wire 

A  little  corner  with  its  crib  .      . 

A  little  girl  in  school  .... 

A  little  glimpse  of  heaven  upon 
our  wearied  earth  .... 

A  little  smoke  lazed  slowly  up 
from  my  big  cigar  .... 

A  maiden  once,  with  eyes  of  blue 

A  man  lived  fifty  years  —  joy 
dashed  with  tears  .... 

A  something  white  came  up  last 
night 

A  song  of  Shadows:  never  glory 
was 

A  song  to  the  football  players  . 

A  story  is  told  of  three  wise  men 
who  travelled  over  the  plains  . 

A  sweet-eyed  child     .... 

A  troop  of  sorrels  led  by  Vic  and 
then  a  troop  of  bays  . 

Above  you  burns  a  molten- 
copper  sun 

Against  the  quicksands  of  re 
ceding  life  to  sink  .... 

Ah!  I'm  feared  thou  's  come  too 
sooin 

Ah  me!   How  slow  the  sad  years 


129 
409 


333 
344 


307 


164 
215 
259 
262 

418 

205 

32 

224 

178 
144 


41 


127 
96 


323 


101 


237 


74 


235 


PAGE 

All  day  with  bright,  appealing 

face 76 

All  in  an  April  wood  ....  243 

All  in  the  April  evening  .  .  .  252 

All  in  the  night  when  sleeping  .  49 
All  Nature  is  sick  from  her  heels 

to  her  hair 305 

All  over  the  land  there 's  a  savory 

smell 301 

All  that  I  ask  is  but  to  stand  .  125 

All  ye  who  read  of  lover's  lore  .  396 

Alone  I  stay;  for  I  am  lame  .  302 
Alone  on  his  rock  nigh  a  hundred 

years .  169 

Along  the  chancel  rail,  and  on 

the  altar  stair 271 

Amid  the  chapel's  chequered 

gloom 260 

Amid  the  fresh  salt  surf  one's 

bit  of  buoyant  life  to  fling  .  237 
Among  the  palms  the  Thing  was 

lost 148 

An  ancient  ghost  came  up  the 

way 39 

An  old  philosopher  in  China  .  418 

An  old  slat  bonnet  hid  her  face  .  281 

And  after  Angelina,  laying  down  147 
And  some  of  us  arrive  at  dawn 

of  day     .      .            ....  9 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wan 
dered  too  long 361 

"Are  you  ready,  O  Virginia"  .  331 

Are  you  worsted  in  a  fight  .  .  226 
Arise,  ye  men  of  strength  and 

might 171 

Arising  slowly  in  his  place  .  .  147 
As  some  pale  shade  in  glorious 

battle  slain  126 

At  eve  He  rested  there  amidst 

the  grass 254 

Away  by  the  haunts  of  the 

Yang-tse-boo 404 

Aye,  an  old  story,  yet  it  might  .  43 

Back  and  forth  in  a  rocker  .  .  29 
Back  'mid  the  Baltic's  sleet  and 

snow 52 

Bare,  low,  tawny  hills  ...  72 


421 


422 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


PAGE 

Be  thou  a  bird,  my  soul,   and 

mount  and  soar  ....  218 
"Bedad,  that  hurt! "  and  Patrick 

held 410 

Behold  from  the  brow  of  the 

mountain  advancing  .  .  .  358 
Behold  us  toiling  up  a  mountain 

side 241 

Beneath  a  palm-tree  by  a  clear 

cool  spring 296 

Beneath  soft  snows  harsh  winter 

lingering 81 

Beneath  this  quiet,  turfy  .  .  390 
Betimes,  when  evening  lies  .  197 
Between  the  hills,  between  the 

hills 211 

Beyond  the  East  the  sunrise, 

beyond  the  West  the  sea  .  .  108 
Beyond  the  far  horizon,  many- 
hilled  86 

Beyond  the  prison  cell  .  .  .  246 
Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries 

he  leans 153 

"But,  lord,"  she  said,  "my 

shoulders  still  are  strong  .  .  231 
But  yesterday  she  played  with 

childish  things 245 

By  care  and  strife  ....  8 
By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  the 

Bashaw  swore 313 

By  the  yellow  in  the  sky  .  .  193 
By-gone  troubadours,  grave  and 

gay 10 

Can  tute  rakker  Romany?  .  .  68 
Captain  Bing  was  a  pirate  king  .  25 
Child  of  the  snowdrift  and  the 

storm 23 

Childhood's  days  are  days  of  sun  32 
Christ  died  for  all,  and  on  the 

hearts  of  all 163 

"Chuff!  chuff!  chuff!"  An'  a 

mountain  bluff  ....  354 
Clarence  Percy  Smith  De  Vere  .  270 
Clouds  crimson-barred  .  .  .  194 
Cold  and  cheerless,  bare  and 

bleak 183 

De  good  Lawd  hide  me  out  er 

sight 347 

De  rich  am  gettin'  richer  .  .  152 
Dear  beacon  of  my  childhood's 

day 204 

Dear  heart,  dost  thou  complain  .  84 
Dear,  let  me  dream  of  love  .  .  131 
Dear  little  Willie  takes  the  ball  .  373 
Der  Kaiser  of  dis  Fatherland  .  390 
Dere  's  allus  joy  when  de  chil- 

len  's  home  202 

Did  you  ever  invoke  .  .  .  223 
Did  you  tackle  that  trouble  that 

came  your  way      ....     221 


PAGE 
"Didn't  you  like  the  party, 

dear,  to-night?"  ....  146 
Do  the  tears  that  arise  in  the 

heat  of  the  strife  ....  239 
Down  in  the  silent  hallway  .  .  410 
Down  old  ways  monks  pass 

ringing    .......      241 

Down  the  lane  and  across  the 

fields 123 

Dream,  dream 193 

Evening  comes  with  peace  to 

some 197 

Farewell,  good  old  pal  of  the 

National  pastime  ....  100 
First  is  a  name  the  world  reveres  356 
Fresh  from  the  griddle's  warm 

embrace 388 

Friends  and  loves  we  have  none, 

nor  wealth,  nor  blest  abode  .  38 
From  dusk  till  dawn  the  livelong 

night 318 

From  out  imprisoning  petals  — 

velvet  red 70 

From  out  the  topmost  bulb  —  a 

budding  sentry  ....  79 
Fruitful  October!  so  fair  and 

calm 75 

Gaze  through  the  opal  mist 

across  the  main  ....  333 
Genesis  tells  of  creation;  of 

Abraham's  call  and  migra 
tion  279 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  assayer, 

"  you  may  talk  all  you  want  to  285 
Git  yo'  little  fillies  ready  ...  381 
Give  her  a  flower  to  keep  and 

hold  16 

Give  me  a  battle  to  fight  .  .  254 
God  did  not  make  her  very  wise  126 
God  of  our  fathers,  known  of, old  151 

"Good-night" 256 

Have  little  care  that  Life  is 

brief 230 

Have  you  seen  God's  Christmas 

tree  in  the  sky 47 

He  offered  himself  for  the  land 

he  loved 341 

He  sought  Australia's  far-famed 

isle 261 

He  wrote  his  soul  into  a  book  .  10 
Her  gaze  meets  his  as  he  looks 

down 306 

Her  name?  Chiquita.  Ah,  senor  265 
Here  's  to  the  men  who  lose  .  215 
Hit 's  hastonishing  to  see  the 

way  Hamerica  has  grown  .  .  398 
"Hold  fast,"  that  splendid  motto 

has  many  battles  won  .  .  219 
Holly  berries  red  and  bright  .  50 
How  blithe  you  are,  and  tall  .  23 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


423 


How    good    our    every    festival 

appears 49 

How  kind  they  have  been  to 

their  Betty 141 

How  often  do  the  clinging  hands, 

though  weak 227 

How  sweet  the  sight  of  roses  .  71 
How  the  eagle  does  ....  77 
I  ain't  no  tantalizin'  brown  .  389 
I  always  like  the  freakish  verse  .  414 
I  am  a  good  old  rebel  ...  322 
I  am  a  moth  ball  ....  412 
I  am  lying  in  my  tent,  Sweet 

Marie 380 

I  am  sitting  to-day  at  the  desk 

alone 90 

"I  am  so  tired!  "I  cried  ...  223 
I  builded  a  castle  in  the  air  .  .  39 
I  could  say  nice  things  about 

him 299 

I  did  not  think  that  I  should 

find  them  there  ....  167 
I  do  be  thinking,  lassie,  of  the 

old  days  now 178 

I  drink  the  foaming  chalice  .  .  180 
I  dwell  amid  the  city  ever  .  .  150 
I  found  a  torrent  falling  in  a  glen  83 
I  gave  a  beggar  from  my  little 

store 227 

I  grew  old  the  other  day  .  .  215 
I  have  a  new  stenographer  —  she 

came  to  work  to-day  .  .  .  379 
I  have  been  dealt  a  cruel  blow  .  225 
"I  have  fought  a  good  fight," 

the    Parson   said,    his   weekly 

text  declaring 93 

I  have  known  sorrow  —  there 
fore  I 298 

I  hear  the  bells  at  eventide  .  .  195 
I  hear  the  drum  roll,  rub-a-dub, 

dub 343 

I  heard  a  soldier  sing  some  trifle  353 
I  hold  no  viol  or  ancient  lute  .  109 
I  know  a  man(accounted  wise)  .  387 
I  know  a  place  where  the  sun  is 

like  gold 226 

I  know  the  way  of  the  wild  blush 

rose 107 

I  know  thou  hast  gone  to  the 

place  of  thy  rest  ....  242 
I  love  old  mothers  —  mothers 

with  white  hair  ....  205 
"I  love,"  she  said,  with  her  faint, 

sweet  smile 125 

I  met  a  waif  i*  the  hills  at  close 

of  day 168 

I  never  see  my  rector's  eyes  .  395 
I  own  a  dog  who  is  a  gentleman  .  201 
I  pray  that  Time  full  many  years 

may  bring 105 


PAGE 

I  sit  beside  my  darling's  grave  .  Ill 
I  spied  beside  the  garden  bed  .  13 
I  stood  on  the  slope  of  Kronos 

gray,     above     the     Olympian 

plain 99 

I  stood  to  hear  that  bold  .  .  247 
I  studied  my  tables  over  and 

over,  and  backward  and  for 
ward,  too 31 

I  think  that  we  retain  of  our  dead 

friends 249 

I  was  not  well  the  other  day  .  393 
I  write.  He  sits  beside  my  chair  4 
If  a  trustee  in  trusting  doth  trust 

him  a  trust 395 

If  all  the  harm  that  women  have 

done 379 

If  I  can  stop  one  heart  from 

breaking 214 

If  I  could  read  my  title  clear, 

among  the  wolves  that  yelp  .  166 
If  I  could  whistle  like  I  used 

when  I  was  just  a  boy  .  .  .  183 
If  I  should  die  to-night  .  .  .  394 
If  I  should  wake,  on  some  soft, 

silent  uight 243 

If  there  be  graveyard  in  the 

heart 222 

If  we  only  knew  what  the  others 

know 232 

If  you  have  a  gray-haired 

mother 210 

If  you  only  loved  each  other  .  103 
I  '11  sing  you  a  song  with  a  full, 

deep  breath 300 

"  I  'm  awful  glad  I  'm  not  a  girl "  29 
I  'm  glad  the  sky  is  painted  blue .  220 
In  a  dingy  little  hovel  .  .  .  156 
In  days  gone  by  when  you  were 

here 189 

In  dim  green  depths  rot  ingot- 
laden  ships 241 

In  girandoles  of  gladioles  .  .  104 
In  him  the  elements  are 

strangely  blent  ....  196 
In  letters  large  upon  the  frame  .  361 
In  praise  of  little  children  I  will 

say 24 

In  the  beams  and  gleams  came 

the  Christmas  dreams  .  .  50 
In  the  gloomy  ocean  bed  .  .321 
In  the  good  old  days,  in  the 

spacious      days,      when      the 

Christmas  feast  began  .  .  58 
In  the  work-a-day  world,  with 

its  woful  greed 207 

Is  it  not  well,  my  brethren? 

There  is  made 312 

Is  the  murmur  of  approval,  high 

and  higher 6 


424 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


It  is  so  common  to  be  dead  . 

It  is  time  to  go  a-Maying     . 

It  looked  extremely  rocky  for 
the  Mudville  nine  that  day  . 

It  was  a  song  of  lustihood    . 

It 's  a  fad  of  my  own,  that  I  'd 
like  to  be  known  .... 

It 's  dirty,  ill-smelling      .      .      . 

It 's  easy  sellin'  'taters     .      .      . 

It's  ho!  for  a  song  as  wild  and 
free 

It 's  late,  perhaps,  for  cherry  pie 

I  've  got  a  letter,  parson,  from 
my  son,  away  out  west  . 

Jes'  a-wearyin'  for  you    . 

Jist  pile  on  some  more  o'  them 
pine  knots 

John  Spratt  will  eat  no  fat    . 

Jolly  good  fellows  who  die  for 
the  death  of  it 

Just  a  German  band  a-playing 
in  a  narrow  alley-way  . 

Just  as  I  thought  I  was  growing 
old 

Karl  lay  on  the  floor  by  the  fire 
light  bright 

Kiss  me,  beloved 

Kiss  the  dear  old  mother,  her 
cheek  is  wan  and  wasted  . 

Lamar  and  his  rangers  camped 
at  dawn  on  the  banks  of  the 
San  Gabr'el 

Last  night  I  dreamed  that  I   . 

Last  night  where  gladness 
reigned  supreme  .... 

Laughter  lurking  in  the  eye,  sir  . 

Let  the  reign  of  Hate  cease  . 

Life,  through  the  arc  of  a  cen 
tury  

Life 's  but  a  game  of  golf     . 

Life's  richest  cup  is  Love's  to 
fill 

Listen,  love     .      .      .      ... 

Little  girl  of  Long  Ago    . 

Little  Lettice  is  dead,  they  say  . 

Lo!  the  nations  have  been  toil 
ing  up  a  steep  and  rugged  road 

Loinwise  upgirded,  with  a  leath 
ern  clout 

Long,  long  ago!  oh,  heart  of 
youth  unheeding  .... 

Look  up,  not  down    .... 

Lord  of  the  living,  when  my  race 
is  run 

Lovely  the  cheer  of  long  ago   . 

Madly  I  long  for  the  day     . 

Mamma,  at  night,  puts  out  my 
light 

Mary  Ann  swabbled  down  the 
stairs 


255 
416 

372 
109 

406 
172 
400 

65 


396 
106 


275 
386 


158 


303 
108 


55 
110 


208 


267 
35 

116 
364 
360 

179 


126 
131 
177 
232 

159 

99 

186 
228 

83 

190 

92 

22 
346 


PAGE 

Master  of  human  destinies  am  I  235 
Master  went  a-hunting  .  .  .  250 
Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's 

day 374 

"May  I  print  a  kiss  on  your 

lips?"  I  said 121 

'Mid  Greenland's  polar  ice  and 

snow 407 

More  annoyed  than  for  many  a 

week  before 278 

Mother!  Home!  —  that  blest  re 
frain  212 

Mothers  are  just  the  queerest 

things 201 

My  arms  are  empty,  and  my 

eyes 248 

My  gallant  love  goes  out  to-day  340 
My  heart  is  like  a  driver-club  .  124 
My  hope  sprang  like  a  fountain, 

in  the  night 217 

My  little  dear,  so  fast  asleep  .  30 
My  little  wife 's  a  world  too 

sweet 283 

My  love  for  you  is  such  a  won 
drous  thing 117 

My  love  he  went  to  Burdon 

Fair  ..." 128 

My  neighbor  yonder,  at  her  door  185 
My  pa  's  a  great  Rough  Rider  .  342 
My  wounded  heart  is  sore  .  .  223 
Nature  alway  is  in  tune  ...  64 
Nature  reads  not  our  labels, 

"great"  and  "small"  .  .  .  154 
New  Year,  good-morning !  Come 

and  bring 61 

Not  a  great  lady,  this  mother  of 

mine 207 

Nothing  to  do  but  work  .  .  .  417 
Now  doth  the  North  his  inmost 

secret  yield 362 

"Now  for  a  brisk  and  cheerful 

fight 317 

Now  is  she  crowned  with  per- 

fectness  at  last 247 

Now  if  to  be  an  April-fool  .  .  65 
Now  the  furnaces  are  out  .  .  170 
O  chaser  of  the  dragon-flies  at 

play  231 

O  frankly  bald  and  obviously 

stout 48 

O  man  of  morbid  soul  and  small  169 
O  mother,  mother,  I  swept  the 

hearth,  I  set  his  chair  and  the 

white  board  spread  ...  43 
O  nightingale,  the  poet's  bird  .  4 
O  painter,  paint  me  autumn 

woods  when  now  ....  246 
O  pleasant  orchard,  emerald 

leaves 68 

"O  Rataplan!  It  is  a  merry  note  356 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


O  water,  voice  of  my  heart,  cry 
ing  in  the  sand   251 

O  when  the  half-light  weaves  .     247 
Oh,    dere  's    lots     o'    keer    an' 

trouble 36£ 

Oh,  I  love  my  love  in  the  sunny 

summer-time 136 

Oh,  let  me  out  into  the  starlight 

night 234 

Oh,  men  have  fought  with  arrows  332 
Oh,  see  how  thick  the  buttercup 

flowers 119 

Oh,  the  blue,  blue  depths  of  the 

sky 129 

Oh,  the  Roman  was  a  rogue  .  .  408 
Oh,  the  soft  blue  waves  of  the 

southern  sea 337 

Oh,  the  swish  and  the  swash  of 

the  blue  summer  sea    .      .      .      415 
Oh,   touch  of  children's  hands! 

And  whether  ta'en      ...       26 
Oh,  what  's  become  of  all  those 

good  old  elocution  days   .      .      180 
Oh!    where  do  the  fairies  hide 

their  heads 34 

Oh,  you  are  near,  my  love,  so 

near  to-night 108 

Old  Billy  B  was  a  pious  man  .  304 
Old  Dan'l  Hanks  he  says  this 

town 399 

Old  Mother  Goose  became  quite 

new 19 

Old  Year,  good-night!    A  faith 
ful  friend 61 

On  dusky  shoulders  .  .  .  .  160 
On  gossamer  nights  when  the 

moon  is  low 40 

On     Grandmamma's     table     is 

waiting  for  me 13 

On  the  mountain-side  the  battle 

raged,  there  was  no  stop  nor 

stay 351 

On  wan  dark  night  on  Lac  St. 

Pierre 392 

Once  I  asked  my  mother  why 

she  wa'n't  a  boy  like  me  .      .     203 
Once  in  a  while  the  skies  seem 

blue 310 

Once  more  the  favoring  breezes 

blow 353 

Once  upon  a  day  most  dreary,  I 

was     wandering     weak     and 

weary 367 

One  in  a  long  dark  pigtail  cries  .  96 
Only  a  factory  girl  ....  306 
Our  merry  little  daughter  .  .  16 
Out  in  the  south,  when  the  day  is 

done 329 

Out  of  tie  deep  sea-stream  .  .  80 
Pale  in  the  east  a  filmy  moon  .  316 


Pens  by  the  hundred      . 

Poor  sad  Strephon  's  been  jilted 
by  Phyllis,  the  jade  .  .  . 

Quench  not  the  children's  joy 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from 
distant  Ophir 

"Read  out  the  names!"  and 
Burke  sat  back 

Resonant,  full  and  deep    . 

Revenge  is  a  naked  sword 

Rock,  rock,  my  hollow  boat 

Safe  and  snug  in  the  sleeping-car 

Sail  on,  Columbus!  sail  right  on 
ward  still 

St.  Anthony  at  church    . 

Saturday  night  in  the  crowded 
town 

Search,  search,  search 

Secure  in  death  he  keeps  the 
hearts  he  had 

Seen  you  down  at  chu'ch  las' 
night 

Seest  thou  a  fault  in  any  other?  . 

Seven  years,  seven  happy,  care 
less  years  

Shakespeare  speaks:  "Sometimes 
when  I'm  not  at  work  on  a 
Play  

Shall  we  walk  by  the  stars  in 
stead  of  the  sun  .... 

Shall  you  complain  who  feed 
the  world 

She  had  a  dimple  in  her  chin 

'She  made  home  happy!"  these 
few  words  I  read  .... 

She  sleeps  within  a  sheltered 
marbled  close 

She  that  dwells  here  her  spirit 
doth  transmit 

She  whom  I  loved,  not  human 
in  degree ' . 

Shindig  in  the  country    . 

Sigh  his  name  into  the  night 

Singing  "The  Star  Spangled 
Banner" 

Socobie,  aged  and  bent  with 
pain  

Some  gain  a  universal  fame  . 

Some    said,    "He    was    strong." 

He  was  weak 

Some  time,  when  all  life's  lessons 
have  been  learned    .... 
Jpanish  is  the  lovin'  tongue   . 

Speeding  before  the  gale  . 
Spirit  of  Twilight,  through  your 

folded  wings 

Spring  comes:  and  baseball,  ro 
bust  flower,  in  every  meadow 's 


Sprinkle,  sprinkle,  little  hose 


425 

PAGE 
401 

117 
16 

380 

319 
301 
162 

67 
292 

168 
173 

309 
386 

239 

403 
161 

187 


394 
240 

165 
105 

206 
117 
210 


384 
116 

330 


89 


235 


238 
120 


193 


185 
383 


426 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


Statue-like    standeth    he    forth, 

quick,  elate  .....  88 
Strange  shape,  who  moulded 

first  thy  dainty  shell  ...  3 
Sunburned  dryad  of  the  lanes  .  67 
Sunset  and  evening  star  .  .  .  192 
Sunshine,  the  bird,  and  the 

bended  bough  .....  72 
Sweet  and  golden  afternoon  .  .  85 
Sweet  his  lady,  fair  of  face  .  .  127 
"Sweet  wife,  this  heavy-hearted 


age 


292 


Swiftly     cutting     through     the 

water       .......       98 

Take  as  gold  this  old  tradition  .  122 
Talk  about  old  Roman  banquets  188 
Tell  ye  the  story  far  and  wide  .  269 
The  asters  now  put  on  the 

lavender        ......       85 

The  blackest  clouds  have  su-ns 

beyond          ......     227 

The  Book  was  opened!  Men  in 

wonder  stood  .....  251 
The  boy  stood  on  the  football 

field  .......     370 

The  branches  creaked  on  the 

garret  roof    ......      142 

The  Captain  strode  the  quarter 

deck        .......     347 

The  Chancellor  mused  as  he 

nibbled  his  pen  ....  130 
The  colors  of  the  setting  sun  .  121 
The  countless  stars,  which  to  our 

human  eye    ......     253 

The  day  was  hotter  than  words 

can  tell    .......     411 

The  doors  are  shut,  the  windows 

fast    ........     140 

The  dusk  of  the  night  is  sweet, 

Babette         ......      112 

The  earth  has  grown  old  with  its 

burden  of  care  .....  46 
The  fairest  blossoms  ever  bloom 

the  last   .......       73 

The  first  train  starts  at  6  p.  m.  .  24 
The  fish  that  gets  away,  my  boy  225 
The  fog  lay  deep  on  Georges 

Bank       .......       41 

The  four-way  winds  of  the 

world  have  blown  ....  325 
The  frost  will  bite  us  soon  .  .  82 
The  lamp  's  dim,  the  fire  's  low  15 
The  leader  waved  his  light  baton  144 
The  little  rag  doll  is  queen  .  .  28 
The  low  line  of  the  walls  that  lie 

outspread      ......      174 

The  needles  have  dropped  from 

her  nerveless  hands  ...  59 
The  orchard  lands  of  Long  Ago  .  176 
The  primrose  blooms  at  eventide  196 


PAGE 
The  roaring  of  the  wheels  has 

filled  my  ears 162 

The  roses  of  yester-year  .  .  .  197 
The  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms 

where  the  south  wind  blows  .  70 
The  sea  blood  slumbering  in  our 

veins 83 

The  Secretary  was  a  presence 

grim 309 

The  start  —  the  strain  —  the 

springing 91 

The  sun  looks  o'er  the  mountain 

fair 90 

The  things  of  every  day  are  all 

so  sweet 299 

The  tree  that  yearns  with  droop 
ing  crest 129 

The  wattles  were  sweet  with 

September's  rain  ....  249 
The  wind  blows  high,  the  wind 

blows  low 82 

The  wind  has  stalked  adown  the 

garden  path 74 

The  wind  that  blows  can  never 

kill 237 

The  wind,  the  wind  where  Erie 

plunged  287 

The  world  was  full  of  battle  .  157 

The  years  come  not  back  that 

have  circled  away  ....  54 
The  years  stretch  far  above  thee  30 
The  young  doctor  sits  through 

his  advertised  hours  .  .  .  397 
Ther's  a  feller  in  the  Black 

Gang 338 

There  are  sounds  in  the  sky 

when  the  year  grows  old  .  .  56 
There  are  whips  and  tops  and 

pieces  of  strings  ....  255 
There  is  a  mother,  legend  runs  .  315 
There  is  a  music  in  the  march  of 

stars 244 

There  now,  Billy,  stop  your  cry 
ing  27 

There  once  was  a  lit'rary  miss  .  402 
There  was  a  little  beggar  maid  .  141 
There  was  a  man  who  put  on 

airs 26 

There  was  a  young  lady,  quite 

rich  418 

There  was  a  young  maid  who 

said:  "Why 399 

There  was  a  young  man  from 

Pall  Mall 410 

There  were  two  young  ladies 

from  Birmingham  .  .  .  378 
There  whispered  in  my  ear  .  .  76 
There  's  a  hurt  in  the  heart  of 

the  night 184 

There  's  a  joy  that  is  a  joy  .  .  26 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


427 


PAGE 

There  's  a  spinster  of  thirty- 
some  years  whose  abode  .  .  145 

There  's  coming  a  year  all  mirth 
and  joy 62 

These  parting  words  we  have  to 


They    are    camped    on    Chicka- 

mauga 326 

They  are  not  long,  the  weeping 

and  the  laughter  ....  253 
They  bought  her,  not  with  Irish 

knife 273 

They  had  come  from  out  of  the 

East 336 

They  hasten,  still  they  hasten  .  35 
They  held  her  south  to  Magel 
lan's  mouth 327 

They  miss  him  in  the  orchard, 

where    the    fruit    is    sunning 

over  340 

They  sat  —  they  two  —  upon 

the  cliff  together  ....  134 
They  've  half  inch  thick  of  tan 

upon  their  faces  ....  348 
This  dog  was  dull.  He  had  so 

little  wit 410 

This  is  the  time  of  the  year,  my 

boys 92 

This  war  with  Spain  reminds 

me  o'  the  Spring  o'  '61  .  .  349 
This  world  it  is  a  pleasant  place  414 
This  world  of  ours  appears  to  me  20 
Thou  canst  not  have  forgotten 

all .12 

Thou  knowest  not  the  parching  69 
Thou  one  all  perfect  Light  .  .251 
Though  care  and  strife  ...  7 
Though  to  talk  too  much  of 

Heaven  418 

Thousands  upon  their  eager  tip 
toes  stand 5 

Through  many  a  year  a  picture 

dear  189 

Thy  semblant  beauty  creeping 

through  the  world  ....  6 
Tier  upon  tier,  through  the 

stands  are  strown  ....  101 
'T  is  an  ancient  Roman  proverb  240 
'T  is  time  —  ah  me!  —  to  change 

my  coat 114 

To  do  what  you  can  ....  14 
To  heroes  who  on  battlefields 

win  fame 413 

To  my  very  best  friend!  to  you, 

dear  friend 115 

To  Night  the  sleeper  .  .  .  .221 
To-day  is  theirs  —  the  unfor- 

gotten  dead 252 

Too  brief  her  sun  of  beauty 

glows 112 


'T  was  long  ago  —  but  I  remem 
ber  118 

'T  was  on  a  merry  Yuletide  night  51 
'T  was  tempting  fat,  and  looked 

well  filled 139 

'T  was  the  night  before  Christ 
mas,  and  small  stockings  three  53 
Two  fleets  have  sailed  from 

Spain.  The  one  would  seek  .  329 
Two  magpies  sat  on  a  garden 

wall 409 

Two  twilights  come  to  man  .  196 
Unto  the  world's  great  diadem  .  5 
Upon  the  tumult  of  the  toiling 

street 224 

Wake!  For  the  Sun  is  out  with 

all  his  might 377 

Wake  up  early,  chillun  .  .  .  345 
Wait  not  until  my  eyes  are 

dimmed  by  everlasting  night  .  Ill 
We  are  the  music-makers  .  .  2 
We  are  the  slaves  of  the  timber 

land  77 

We  are  the  toilers  from  whom 

God  barred 233 

We  come  from  the  war-swept 

valleys 236 

We  have  gone  down  to  the  sea  .  200 
We  have  heard  the  roll  of  the 

signal-gun 95 

We  have  read  in  song  and  story  .  334 
We  wandered  in  the  woodland 

dim 124 

We  were  ordered  to  Samoa  from 

the  coast  of  Panama  .  .  .  266 
Weary  months  I  've  spent  in 

Tampa,    where    the    luscious 

hard-tack  grows  ....  345 
We  '11  read  that  book,  we  '11  sing 

that  song 250 

We  've  had  a  social  squabble 

down  to  Pohick  on  the  crick  .  381 
What  boots  my  will  to  guide  a 

gilded  tongue 236 

What  is  that,  mother?  .  .  .  374 
What  is  there  in  living  when  one 

has  lost  all 216 

What  saw  you  in  your  flight 

to-day 182 

What  time  in  front  of  this  dim 

glass  the  Princess  fair  ...  138 
What  time  the  Lord  drew  back 

the  sea 355 

When  a  man  becomes  a  hero  all 

the  world  is  standing  round  .  402 
When  angels  walk  across  the  sky  37 
When  Cholly  swung  his  golf  stick 

on  the  links 335 

When  de  fiddle  gits  to  singing 

out  a  ole  Vahginny  reel   .      .     382 


428 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


When,  formed  by  groping  mind 
and  tedious  hand  .... 

When  Morning's  jewelled  fingera 
part  

When  mother  was  a  little  girl    . 

When  my  turn  comes,  dear  ship 
mates  all 

When  on  my  country  walks  I  go 

When  pa  an'  ma  was  married  in 
the  days  long  gone  and  dead  . 

When  red  and  white  the  rose  of 
June 

When  swallows  fly     .... 

When  Teddy  Bears  are  brought 
to  table 

When  the  city's  rush  is  over, 
and  the  monthly  ticket  shown 

When  the  crisp  autumnal 
zephyrs  whistle  through  the 
leafless  trees 

When  the  dark  shadows  fall  . 

When  the  day's  stint  is  finished, 
and  master  and  man  . 

When  the  dew  is  fresh  and  the 


When  the  sands  of  night  are  run 
When  the  spring's  elysian   . 
Where    are    the    loves    that    we 

loved   before 

Where  the  mountain  sips  the  sea 


PAGE 
3 


112 
391 


244 
84 


146 


258 
194 


22 
209 


94 
226 

163 

97 
152 
219 

248 
79 


PAGE 

Who    can    describe    the    dainty 

curls 139 

Who  more  shall  trust  thee, 

Nature;  who  so  dare  .  .  .  359 
Why  did  you  say  you  loved  me 

then  113 

Why  do  I  love  you,  dear?  Be 
cause  112 

With  the  May  blossoms,  cheery 

and  bold 106 

Within  my  cell  are  singing 

sounds  —  a  robin's  call,  afar  .  168 
Within  the  convent  garden,  at 

the  dusk 196 

Without  one  bitter  feeling  let  us 

part  133 

Yassir,  I  'm  a  no'thern  coon  .  388 
Ye  lonely  peaks,  with  brows  of  ice  69 
Ye  wild,  free  troopers  of  the  skies  73 
Yes,  he  was  the  only  one  killed  .  341 
Yes,  I  am  Opportunity  .  .  .  217 
Yes,  yes,  my  son,  I  have  no 

doubt 185 

Yester'en  while  strolling  through 

a  marish  dale 411 

You  talk  about  some  maiden  fair  142 
You  would  have  understood  me, 

had  you  waited 135 

You's  as  stiff  an'  as  cold  as  a 

stone  21 


MAR  22  1934 
MAY    31934 

DEC   ~6  1934 
NOV  19  1937 


DEC  6 

JAN    4  1939 


JUL     5  1939 


( 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


